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I 



^ ^ * i\ -A . f f .*• 













1 1 











PUBLICATIONS 



OF THE 



i-^fr 



M ODKRN Language Association 



OF AMERICA 



1888-1889. 



VOL. IV. 



Published by the Association. 
BALTIMORE: 

1889. 



805 

L3o 



f 



CONTENTS. 



Vol. IV., No. 1. 

I. COX, JACOB D.— Address of Welcome 1-3 

II. MORRIS, EDWARD D.— The Language and 

Literature of Wales 4-18 

III. EASTON, MORTON W.— The Rhetorical Tenden- 

cy IN Undergraduate Courses 19-23 

IV. WALTER, EDWARD L.— Dante's Paradiso : Can- 

tos xxiV'Xxvi 24-40 

V. GARNETT. JAMES M.— Notes on Elizabethan 

Prose 41-61 

VI. McCABE, THOMAS— The Geste of Auberi le 

BOURGOING 62-82 

VII. SHEPHERD, HENRY E.— Some Points in the 

Study of English Prose Style 83-85 

VIII. OTTO, RICHARD— Italo-Keltisches 86-112 

Vol IV., No. 2. 

I. GOEBEL, JULIUS — On the Impersonal Verb 1 13-123 

II. PAGE, FREDERICK M.— Italian Poetry and 
Patriotism at the Beginning of the Nine- 
teenth Centtry 124-144 

N III. GREENE, HERBERT EVELETH— The Allegory 

AS EMPLOYED BY SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SwiFT. I45-I93 

IV. FISCHER, FRANK— The Stressed Vowels in 

iELFRic's Homilies, Vol. 1 194-213 

V. PRIMER, SYLVESTER— The Huguenot Element 

IN Charleston's Pronunciation 214-244 

Vol IV., N08. 3 and 4. 

I. TODD, HENRY ALFRED— La Naissance du Cheva- 
lier AU Cygne {Separate pagination) i-xiii, 1-120, 1-18 



INDEX. 



Address of Welcome. (See Cox) 1-3 

iClfric's Homilies, The Stressed Vowels in — , Vol. I. (See 

Fischer) 194-213 

Allegory. The — as employed by Spenser, Bunyan and Swift. 

(See Greene) i45~-i93 

Auberi le Bourgoing, The Geste of — . (See McCabe) 62-82 

Bunyan, The Allegory as employed by Spenser, — r and 

Swift. (See Greene) M5-I93 

Charleston's Pronunciation, The Huguenot Element in — . 

(See Primer) 214-244 

Co.x, Jacob D., Address of Welcome 1-3 

Dante's Paradiso : Cantos x.xiv-xxvi. (See Walter) 24-40 

Easton, Morton W. The Rhetorical Tendency in Under- 
graduate Courses 19-23 

Elizabethan, Notes on— Prose. (See Gamett) 4i-6iv> 

English, Some Points in the Study of— Prose style. (See 

Shepherd) 83-85 

Fischer, Frank. The Stressed Vowels in iElfric*s Homilies, 

Vol. I I94-3I3. 

Gamett, James M. Notes on Elizabethan Prose 41-61 

Goebel, Julius. On the Impersonal Verb 113-123 

Greene, Herbert Eveleth. The Allegory as employed by 

Spenser, Bunyan and Swift 145-193 

Homilies, The Stressed Vowels in iElfric*s — . Vol., I. (See 

Fischer) 194-213 

Huguenot, The — Element in Charleston's Pronunciation. 

(See Primer) 214-244 

Impersonal, on the— Verb. (See Goebel) 1 13-123 

Italian Poetry and Patriotism at the Beginning of the Nine- 
teenth Century. (See Page) 124-144 

Italo-Keltisches. (See Otto) 86-112 

Keltisches, Italo — . (See Otto) 86-113 

Language, The — and Literature of Wales (See Morris) 4-18 

Literature, The Language and — of Wales. (See Morris) 4-18 

McCabe, Thomas. The Geste of Auberi le Bourgoing 62-82 

Morris, Edward D., The Language and Literature of Wales. 4-18 



INDEX. 

Naissance du Chevalier au Cygne. Introduction i 

Analysis of vi 

Andersen's version xiii 

Chevalier au Cygne, Hippeau's text ; Reiffenberg's text, viii-x 

Composite version ix 

Dolopathos version iit 

Grimm's version xi 

Historia septem sapientum iv 

Legend of ii 

Lohengrin ii, v 

Manuscripts of. xiii 

Notes 103 

Prose Version 96 

Vocabulary 121 

Nineteenth Century, Italian Poetry and Patriotism at the Be- 
ginning of the — . (See Page) 124-144 

Otto. Richard, Italo-Keltisches 86-112 

Page, Frederick M. Italian Poetry and Patriotism at the Be- 
ginning of the Nineteenth Century 124-144 

Paradiso, Dante's — : Cantos xxiv-xxvi. (See Walter) 24-40 

Patriotism, Italian Poetr>' and — at the Beginning of the 

Nineteenth Century. (See Page) 124-144 

Poetry, Italian — and Patriotism at the Beginning of the Nine- 
teenth Century. (See Page) 124-144 

Primer, Sylvester, The Huguenot Element in Charleston's 

Pronunciation 214-244 

Pronunciation, The Huguenot Element in Charleston's — . 

(See Primer) 214-244 

Prose, Notes on Elizabethan — . (See Garnett) 41-61 

, Some Points in the Study of English — Style. (See.. 

Shepherd) • 83-85 

Rhetorical, The — Tendency in Undergraduate Courses. 

(See Easton) 19-23 

Shepherd, Henry E. Some Points in the Study of English 

Prose Style 83-85 

Spenser, The Allegory as employed by — , Bunyan and Swift. 

(See Greene) 145-193 

Swift, The Allegory as employed by Spenser, Bunyan and — . 

(See Greene) 145-193 

Todd, Henry A. Naissance du Chevalier du Cygne (Xos. 3 

and 4) : i 

Undergraduate Courses, The Rhetorical Tendency — (See 

Easton) 19-23 

Verb, on th Impersonal — . (See Goebel) 1 13-124 

Vowels, The Stressed — in iElfric's Homilies, Vol. I. (See 

Fischer) 194-213 

Wales, The Language and Literature of— 4-18 

Walter, Edward L. Dante's Paradiso : Cantos xxiv-xxvi 24-40 



PUBLICATIONS 

OF THE 

Modern Language Association of America 



Vol. IV. 1889. No. I. 

ADDBE8S OF WELCOME.* 

By Ex-Governor JACOB D. COX, A. M.. LL. D., 
PRESIDENT OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CINCINNATI, OHIO. 

Mr. President and Members of the Society: The 
very pleasant task has been assigned me of welcoming you to 
Cincinnati. What I say shall have the merit of brevity, for I 
know the importance and interest of the paper to which you are 
yet to listen. We are heartily glad to see you here because we 
have felt that the session of the Association would be education 
to us and to the community. We can do but little to rival the 
hospitality of the eastern cities in which you have usually held 
your meetings, but we hope that from your educational stand- 
point it will not prove unwise to have accepted an invitation 
west of the Allegheny mountains. Our interest in your work 
will be stimulated and the public appreciation of its value will be 
strengthened by thus bringing it and its ripening fruits to the 
attention of the people in the newer as well as the older parts 
of the country. For your work's sake, then, if not for your 
own, we hope that your visit may seem profitable. 

The history of your Association is an important part of the 
history of American progress in adequate and scientific instruc- 
tion in the modern languages. It is not long since modem lan- 
guage teaching may be said to have been without method, even 

* Delivered before the Sixth Annual CoDventioD of the Modern Language Association 
held at Cincinnati, Ohio, December, x888. 



2 JACOB D, COX, 

east of the mountains. All of us who are of middle age can 
remember when it was a sufficient equipment for a teacher of a 
modern language to speak it as a native tongue, with little or 
no inquiry whether the teacher had a liberal education or any 
philological training. What Professor Hart has said of its 
being a comparatively short time since two distinguished men 
represented all there was doing in the country in the depart- 
ment of modern philology, is not only true, but it is true within 
the memory of many who are present to-night. Looking back 
to my own college days, I remember that what little French 
and German we got was picked up outside of the college cur- 
riculum, as extra studies from private teachers. The idea of 
requiring a knowledge of modern languages, other than the 
vernacular, for admission to college had not then been 
dreamed of. 

The work, then, is one of which you yourselves have seen 
nearly the whole progress. You who are teaching east of the 
mountains have seen more than we ; some of you, in fact, have 
not only been part of it, but magna pars. We on the western 
slope have been quite willing to follow, as we could, the good 
example set, and such is the tendency of the time to rapid pro- 
gress, that we may perhaps claim fair success in keeping abreast 
of the older institutions of the east. 

Everybody knows that there are different ways of learning 
a language. If merely to express one's personal wants and 
ordinary thoughtswere all, it would seem to be a very simple 
affair. The raw, unlettered immigrant soon learns to use a new 
tongue with some facility. The little child learns to chatter 
volubly at its mother's knee. The shopkeeper of a foreign 
town puts up the sign * English spoken here,' or the hotel 
waiter or courier may (as somebody said of a distinguished 
American journalist) " speak a leash of languages at once." But 
from this absorbing or memorizing of words and common 
idioms it is a long step to the scientific teaching of modern lan- 
gruages so as to make it a linguistic education and philological 
training f as accurate, as logical and as disciplinary as the teach- 



ADDRESS OF WELCOME. 3 

ing of classic Latin and Greek. This is the change you have 
witnessed and participated in. Modern literatures are now 
opened to the student with a critical acumen, a breadth of cul- 
ture and a philosophic strength which may rightly be called 
fascinating, and which are attracting many who have heretofore 
thought that the highest literary cultivation could only be found 
in the ancient tongues. I believe that whilst we could not 
afford to lose the old culture, we cannot afford td neglect the 
new. 

Be assured then that there is little danger any intelligent com- 
munity will not recognize your work as a vastly important one, 
and honor you a» the special representatives and efficient work- 
ers in the progress which I have spoken of. The members of 
your Society who live in Ohio have wished that all in the west 
who are interested in education might have the opportunity of 
meeting you here, and of joining in the discussion of the 
topics of great- interest which will be before you. We hope 
some may be here who could not conveniently go far east for 
the purpose, and that your influence will thus widen by reaching 
out from a new centre. Every city in the land would be proud 
to offer you its hospitality ; but to come in contact with western 
teachers and western people, and to make a wider constituency 
for yourselves by letting these know more of your educational 
work and your aims, seemed a sufficient reason for urging you 
to apj)oint this meeting here. For these reasons, on behalf of 
our citizens generally, and for those engaged in educational work 
particularly, I am happy to bid you a most cordial welcome. 



THE LAKQVAGE AND LTTERATUBE OF WALKS.* 

By EDWARD D. MORRIS, D. D., LL. D. 

PROFESSOR OF SYSTEMATIC THEOLOGY IN LANE THEOLOGICAL 

SEMINARY, CINCINNATI. 

Gentlemen of the Association : — As vessels of various 
lines and nationalities dip their colors in graceful recognition 
when they pass each other on the high seas, so those who rep- 
resent any single department of human knowledge may well 
accept every occasion for the manifestation of friendly cour- 
tesies toward such as are the acknowledged representatives of 
learning in other spheres, however remote or foreign in outward 
appearance. For, as it is one and the same ocean which washes 
the shores of islands and continents far distant from each other, 
and binds them into a physical unity otherwise unattainable, so 
this vaster ocean of human knowledge, with its cosmic com- 
merce of thought and attainment, makes friends of all who 
traverse its magnificent ranges, whatever cargo they may carry, 
and whatever be the port toward which they are hastening. 

If this duty of fraternal recognition rests especially on any 
single class, it must devolve primarily on those who in any 
degree represent what the Scholastics were wont to call the 
Scientia scieniiarum. For Theology, in its natural, and still 
more in its revealed form, is the science in which all other 
sciences find their proper ground and center — the science 
which, as it deals with the most comprehensive and sublime 
truths with which the human mind can be interested, and as it 
aims to secure the loftiest possible results in human character, is 
therefore most tenderly sympathetic toward all genuine progress 
in every subordinate sphere, and most ready to welcome every 
truly scientific attainment, even in regions most remote, appar- 
ently, from those in which it labors. What new development is 
there in the broadening field of ethics, personal or social, of law 
and government and civil order, of statemanship or civilization 
in the largest sense of that term, which the intelligent theolo- 
gian does not welcome, as well for the relations it sustains to his 
own department of learning, as for its beneficient effects on man 
and on human life! What fresh discovery is there, whether 

* Address delivered before the Sixth Annual Convention of the Modern Language 
AssociATtoN, held at Cincinnzti, Ohio, December, xSM. 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE OF WALES, 5 

made with microscope or with telescope, — what new law or 
force in the material universe, or what sparkling fact dug from 
the mines of nature, in which he may not rejoice who sees a 
comprehending God alike in earth and sky, and who counts all 
the physical sciences as his elect helpers in the progressive 
unveiling of that supreme Deity in whom all human knowledges 
must finally be centered ? And again, what further attainment 
can be made in the wide domain of language, whether it be in 
that imperial group of tongues through whose medium the 
Divine Word was first made manifest to men, or in those more 
primitive forius of speech through which thought found expres- 
sion in the earlier ages of the world, or in those relatively mod- 
ern languages and dialects to whose study this Association is 
devoted, with which an earnest theologian with a wide outlook 
into life, will not find hifnself in generous and practical sym- 
pathy ? It is hardly out of place to say that the science of 
theology and the science of language are in some respects 
drawn together by special affiliations, since a sound and deep 
theology becomes possible only as cultivated and elaborated lan- 
guao^e furnishes it with clearer, completer modes of statement, 
and since, on the other side, the Bible is the Creator Book from 
whose quickening influence the larger and loftier part of mod- 
ern literature has come into existence. 

It is not impossible. Gentlemen of the Association, that we 
might find along some of these interesting lines of thought 
material enough to occupy our attention worthily in this opening 
session. But I am led away by an inherited love for a language 
familiar to me from childhood, by a pleasant recollection of 
studies pursued to some extent in earlier years, and by my 
sense of what may be more immediately serviceable to the 
Association, to speak as a special theme of The Welsh Lan- 
guage and The Welsh Literature^ especially as these may 
present themselves for consideration, during the long period 
from the sixth to the fifteenth century.* Without claiming any 

X The following books may be consulted on the general subject here discussed : 
Myfykian Arch.«olo(;y OF Walks : A Compilation. 3 vols. 
Skbnb, W. F.: Four Ancient Books of Wales. 
PucHB, Wm. Owain. Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Htn, 
Williams, Edwakd, (Editor). The lolo Manuscripts. 
Guest, Lady Charlotte: The Mabinogion. 

TuKNEK, Sharon : Vindication of the Genpineness of the Ancient British Poems. 
Stephens, Thos.: Literature of the Cymry, 
Davis, Edward Rev.: Celtic Researches. 
Rhys, Professor : Welsh Philology. 
G/KALDUs CambrensiHf lifnerarium. 



6 EDWARD D. MORRIS. 

exhaustive or technical acquaintance with the old Cymraeg, or 
attempting any thorough account of its extensive and delightful 
literature, I shall be content if what may be said respecting them 
shall awaken in other minds even a tithe of the interest which 
the subject has aroused, both long ago and more recently, in 
my own. 

The first glimpse of the Cymry, as we gather it from Grecian 
and Roman History and from Keltic tradition, reveals to our 
vision a tribe or a concourse of clans grouped around certain 
hereditary leaders or chieftains, making their way gradually 
from the great eastern cradle of the race, probably along the 
valley of the Danube and across ancient Gaul, pushing before 
them several Gaelic tribes which had anteceded them in their 
migration, and crowded on in turn by those tribes of Asiatic 
origin who afterwards found their abddes in central Europe, 
until at length they rested from their half nomadic and half 
warlike wandering, a part in Brittany, the larger part across the 
Channel in the southern and central portions of the British Isles. 
Here C^csar found them at the date of his invasion, and here 
after a long conflict, and after their many sanguinary and ex- 
hausting strifes with Pict and Scot and with one another, the 
Roman Empire succeeded in establishing its authority over 
them, though always in the face of determined revolt, and 
always through bloody sacrifice. Here also Christianity found 
them, and in the person of men like Augustine endeavored to 
lift them above their old Druidic religion, and educate them 
into the better faith of the Gospel. Of their general character- 
istics and manner of life, we learn something from Tacitus 
(Agricola) and CiESAR, (Commentaries) from the somewhat 
questionable testimony of Gildas, and from various other 
sources, all revealing a state of society in which the introduc- 
tory seeds of a healthful civilization have planted themselves, 
but in which savage instincts and savage tastes, like mischievous 
weeds, still largely possess and taint the soil. Their language 
was a commanding form of that old Keltic speech, which 

Jones, John : History of Wales. 

Powell, Tiios. M. : HUtory of the Ancient Britons, (American.) 

Williams, R., Rev.: Biographical Dictionary of Eminent Welshmen. 

Archaolugia Cambrxnsis : A Journal. 

CvuMRODOKioN : Transactions of, etc. 

It may be added here, that the writer has felt at liberty to draw somewhat upon articles 
written by himself, and published in the Bibliotheca Sacra^ 1850 and 1853. The facts given 
in the address have, however, been verified by more recent investigations in this interesting 
field. 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE OF WALES, 7 

existed for many centuries in one type in the Gwyddelic or 
Irish, the Scottish Gaelic, and the dialect of the Isle of Man ; 
and in another type in the Cymraeg, the Cornish and the 
Armoric dialect of Brittany, — all traceable backward through 
their close affinities on one side with the kindred dialects of 
Gaul, on the other side with both the Greek and the Latin 
tongues, to some common origin in the old East. Skene 
in his Introduction to the * Four Ancient Books of Wales * 
lays much stress on " the great distinctive dialectic differences '' 
between these two types of the Keltic stock, affirming that 
these differences "lie deep in the ver>' groundwork of the 
language, and must have existed before the entrance of these 
several tribes into Great Britain, if not indeed before their 
entrance into Europe." .At the same time, he maintains that 
" there are also analogies so close, vital and fundamental, as to 
leave no doubt that these languages are all children of one 
common parent ;" and in confirmation of this view, he quotes an 
eminent Welsh scholar of the present day as declaring that two 
thirds of the vocabulary of these six dialects are substantially 
the same. 

The beginnings of intellectual life and culture among the 
ancient Britons are traceable directly to the remarkable insti- 
tution of Druidism, — an institution established more or less fully 
from very early times among the various Keltic tribes both 
British and Continental, but which reached its finest consumma- 
tion among the Cymry alone. The Druids or Derwyddon 
(probably from derw, an oak), were originally a religious or 
priestly order solely, analogous to the organized priesthood of 
ancient Egypt or of modern India, growing up during succes- 
sive ages out of the needs and the stimulations of that strong 
and fruitful natural faith, which Professor Rhys has recendy 
described in his volume on 'Celtic Heathendom.' = As this 
priestly order became more thoroughly organized, and therefore 
more widely influential, it naturally began to assume other 
functions than those of religion : it shared with chieftains and 
princes in the framing and even the administration of law : it 
became also a teaching order, gathering into its own hands all 
available knowledge, and imparting such knowledge pedagogi- 
cally to the people. By degrees it became a poetic or bardic 
order also, and by the skill of its numbers in both poetry and 

a Hibbirt Lectures^ z886, on the Origin and Growth of Religion, as illustrated by 
Celtic Heathendom. 



8 EDWARD D, MORRIS. 

music commended itself more and more to the patronage of 
the nobles, and to the favor of the lower classes. At length, 
by this process we find three orders coming into existence from 
the druidic stock, closely related, yet growing more distinct in 
name and function : the priest, the philosopher, and the bard. 
Of the functions of the priesthood proper, we have suggestive 
illustrations in the still existing crcmlechau or temples as at 
Stonehenge, in other relics remaining especially in the sacred 
isle of Mona, the modern Anglesey, in the religious triads 
some of which at least may claim druidic origin, and in the 
surviving traditions of their worship and their sacrifices, 
sometimes as cruel as they were impressive in their influence 
upon the common people. Hume has said that no form of 
idolatrous worship ever attained such ascendancy over mankind ; 
and another English historian declares, though with something 
of prejudice in his tone, that no system of superstition was 
ever more fearful — none ever better calculated to impress igno- 
rance with awful terror, or to extort implicit confidence from a 
deluded race. What the druidic philosophers held and taught, 
in the recesses of their schools, which none but the choicest 
youths were permitted to enter, whose instructions were never 
written but always verbal, and whose lessons no one might 
reveal to the uninitiated except at the hazard of barbaric pen- 
alties, we can only surmise from what we learn of their domi- 
nating influence for centuries over all classes, and especially 
over the ruling families of the nation. That the druidic bards 
sang welcome songs of love, hymns of praise to their patrons, 
odes of triumph in battle, elegies to the slain hero, and com- 
memorative threnodies to the dead, we know as assuredly and 
by the same process as we know that there were poets in Greece 
before Homer sang, though few if any of these poetic products 
have survived to our time. 

What is important now is simply to note the influence and 
impact of such a body of men as the Druids, in these three 
varieties, came to be upon the mental life and experience of the 
Cymry during the long period which began before the Christian 
era, and continued down, with an increasing intensity, to the 
fifth and sixth centuries when Welsh literature may be said to 
have first embodied itself permanently in written language. 
That the Druids themselves had such a written language, there 
is little reason to question ; but the mystic secrecy with which 
they enshrouded alike their knowledge and their instructions, 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE OF WALES, 9 

has always precluded any close estimate of their linguistic 
abilities and attainments. Their preparatory work was oral, 
and therefore evanescent so far as enduring form was concerned, 
though by no means evanescent in the impression it made upon 
the popular life during that formative era. Had it not been for 
the druidic order, and especially for the school of philosophy 
and the school of poetry established by it, we might have 
searched in vain through many succeeding centuries for any 
literature worthy of the name. 

With this brief reference to what Druidism was and what 
Druidism did for the primitive Cymry, we may now descend to 
the sixth century, and to the historic triad of Welsh poets whose 
productions have been preserved to our time : Taliesin, An- 
EURIN and Llvwarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged. The 
question respecting the authenticity of these poems has been 
settled substantially in their favor; first by Sharon Turner, 
and more recendy by Skene and other reliable authorities in 
Keltic lore. It is altogether probable, however, as Skene 
admits, that poems by unknown or obscure authors during the 
two or three centuries following and perhaps later, have found 
their way surreptitiously into the large list of poetical produc- 
tions which bear the name of Taliesin. There are four man- 
uscript volumes, in which the writings of these earlier bards 
have been preser\ed ; the Llyfr Du or Black Book of Caer- 
marthen, compiled during the twelfth century, in the reign of 
Henry H ; the Book of Aneurin, traceable to the latter 
part of the thirteenth ; the Book of Taliesin, transcribed early 
in the fourteenth ; and the Llyfr Goch or Red Book of 
Hergest, compiled at different times during the fourteenth and 
fifteenth centuries, and now in the library of Jesus College. We 
have a complete collection of these poems in the original, and 
also a valuable translation, preceded by an important discussion 
of the problem of authenticity, and of other matters of interest 
in this connection, in the * Four Ancient Books of Wales.' 

The longest poem in this collection, containing 920 lines of 
various meters, and the only one unquestionably attributable to 
Aneurin, is the " Gododin,'* which describes the bloody bat- 
tle of Cattraeth, fought in A. D. 540 between the Cymry and 
the Saxons, and resulting in the complete overthrow of the 
Cymric forces and the slaughter of nearly all their leaders. 
Aneurin was himself a warrior in the battle, *vt\d ^ttex v{\\xv^%s- 
lag^ the destruction of the army took refuge \t\ l\\e coWe^'t ox 



lO EDWARD D. ^fORRIS, 

convent of Cattwg in South Wales, where he composed his 
graphic and touching elegy. In the progress of the ode, the 
several British chieftains are introduced and characterized, the 
incidents of the battie are given, the fall of one hero after 
another is described with melting pathos, and the whole scene 
from the first onset to the final overthrow is pictured with 
remarkable animation, and with a degree of terse strength and 
linguistic skill which fully justifies the assignment of the poem 
to a foremost place among the productions of that primitive 
age. The writer of the article on ** Celtic Literature " in the 
Encyclopedia Brittanica, says that in the brevity of the narra- 
tive, the careless boldness of the actors as they present them- 
selves, the condensed energy of the action, and the fierce exul- 
tation of the slaughter, together with the recurring elej[jiac note, 
this production exhibits some of the highest epic qualities. 

The poems of the princely bard, Llvwarch HfeN, of wh'ch 
twelve are extant, consist in part of heroic elegies and in part 
of personal thoughts and experiences, especially in view of 
advancing age. They are simple in structure and n^eter, 
and their range is relatively limited, yet they are remark- 
able for strength of expression, for picturesque imagery, and for 
genuine poetic grace and fervor. Stephens says of this bard 
that, though a warrior and treating of warriors, his forte does 
not lie in heroic poetry ; his descriptions of manners are happy, 
and the incidental allusions are strikingly descriptive of the 
age; but his chief power lies in pathetic lamentation, and his 
elegies contain many fine sentiments. But neither Aneurin nor 
Llywarch is equal to Taliesin, either in the number of pro- 
ductions still extant, or in the range and power of their poetic 
genius. Eliminating from the long list of poems ascribed to 
him both those which betray in themselves a later origin and 
some which possibly were composed by earlier bards whose 
names have not certainly come down to us, we have still a large 
and interesting series of productions unquestionably his own, — 
some of them descriptive of the sanguinary conflicts of" the 
period and commemorative of chieftains who fell in them, — 
others celebrating the name and praises of Urien Reged, his 
princely patron, — others referring to the personal history and 
experiences of the poet, and to more general themes. The 
translations given by Skene, and especially those which treat of 
war and battle, justify the statements of a high authority re- 
specting Taliesin, that his poems show more skill in composi- 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE OF WALES, n 

tion, finer ideas, bolder images, and more intense passion than 
those of any other poet of the age. 

The description, perhaps more stilted and fervid than calmly 
accurate, which Taine in one of the opening chapters in his 
* History of English Literature ' has given us of the earliest 
Saxon poetry, may quite as justiy be applied to these primitive 
productions of the Cymric muse. Setting aside all that has 
been on insufficient grounds ascribed to these ancient authors, — 
dropping out also the poems attributed to Myrddin and other 
bards whose chronology is doubtful, we still find remaining a 
body of literature which at once awakens attention and com- 
mands our interest. It is true that these poems were written in 
an uncultured age, and among a people but slightly civilized 
according to our modern standard. It is true that the themes 
with which they are occupied are comparatively few in number 
and meager in importance, — that the language and the style are 
relatively crude, — that the impressions produced within the 
reader are less deep and powerful than those wrought in our 
breasts by the commanding genius of such great poets of man" 
kind as Homf.r or Virgil, Dante or Milton or Goethe. 
And yet who can contemplate these Cymric productions, origi- 
nating centuries before the beginnings of what we may properly 
term English literature, treasured up through the intervening 
generations, and descending in their archaic simplicity down to 
our own time, without being deeply interested both in what they 
are and in what they suggest ? 

It is to the centuries immediately following this primal era of 
poetic development that the * Mabinogion,' a curious collection 
of prose tales and romances, some of very early and some of 
later origin; and also the first three extant histories of the 
Cymry, are generally referred, — those of Gildas, of Nennius, 
and of TvsiLio. The 'Brut* or Chronicle of Tysilio, though 
its antiquity has been strenuously challenged, is printed in the 
Myfyrian Archaeology as a reliable production of that early age. 
A copy of the * Historia Brittonum ' by Nennius is in the Vat- 
ican Library, with an important appendix, bringing the narrative 
down to the tenth century. An interesting reference by this 
author to certain antiquis libris nostrorum veterum seems to 
indicate that these two or three histories were not the first his- 
torical records of the Cymric people, but rather were based 
upon older works which have not been preserved. In any event, 
the writing of such history becomes a witness almost as valu- 



12 EDWARD D, MORRIS. 

able as the poetry just considered, to the grade of intellectual 
life which the nation had at this early day attained. 

Wending our way through the tangled tradition of these cen- 
turies, we come at length at the opening of the tenth century to 
the illustrious era of Hywel Dda, who during his reign of five 
and thirty years established among the discordant British chief- 
tains a degree of unity never before attained, and made the 
nation for the time secure against foreign assault. Hywel has 
been styled the Welsh Justinian; and the code of laws which 
he caused to be compiled from the traditional code of Dyfnwal 
Moelmud and other ancient sources, stands out in Cymric 
history as a monument to his wisdom, and at the same time an 
enduring testimony to the state of culture and morals in the 
nation itself. The story of the formation of this legal code, of 
the share of princes and wise men in its elaboration, of the vol- 
untary acceptance of it by the people, of its being borne by 
Hywel himself to Rome, there to receive the papal approba- 
tion and endorsement, is hardly less striking than the story of 
the English Magna Charta : and the fact that this code remained 
as the fixed law of the realm down to the period when the 
Welsh surrendered their independence to Edward I. of England, 
is abundant proof of its extraordinary value. No one can read 
it, in its various branches, without being led to see in it as in a 
mirror a remarkable illustration, not merely of the moral temper 
of the Cymry nine centuries ago, but also of the high degree 
of development which their language had then attained as an 
expression and index of their intellectual life.3 

But our chief concern with this Hywelian code relates to the 
unique provisions made in it for the protection and support of 
the bardic order. In it the bards were divided into three 
classes, according to their skill and understanding : the Eistedd- 
fody or concourse of bards for the purpose of poetic competi- 
tion, was established by law: the Pencerddy or Chief of Song, 
attained his office by regal appointment, and his salary and 
privileges and immunities were carefully prescribed. He re- 
ceived at his installation a harp which he was never to part with, 
and at every public festival it was his duty to sing in poetic 
strains in honor of his lord. Other duties, such as the preser- 
vation of royal and princely genealogies, the imparthig of 

3 A splendid copy of the ' Laws of Hywel Dda ' with an English translation has been 
published during this century by the British Government,— edited by an accomplished 
Welsh scholar, Anbvrin Owbn, 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE OF WALES, 13 

instruction to noble youths, and assistance in the management 
of civil affa'rs, were also assigned him. In general, the poet 
laureate of England with his special place and remunerations is 
but a feelle representative of the Pencerdd in the good old days 
of HvwEL Dda. 

Under such nurture, poetry became from the tenth century 
onward a national art and a national passion. We see indeed 
after the death of Hvwel the return of internal rivalries and 
distractions, the struggles of various aspirants after the supreme 
authority, the successive invasions of the national domain by 
Scot and Gwyddel, by Saxon and Norman, and other similar 
causes tend'n^^ to repress the national culture not merely in this 
but in every form. Still there survived, as the interesting liin- 
crariiim of GiR ALDUS Cambrensis shows us, much of the old 
poetic and literary spirit. In the earlier half of the twelfth 
century we discover what Williams in his * Biographical Dic- 
tionary of Eminent Welshmen' styles a great reformation 
under Gruffvdd ab Cvxan, one of the most celebrated 
princes of North Wales, — a reformation or reconstruction, 
during which Welsh literature reached a high degree of perfec- 
t'on, and a brilliant succession of poets appeared extending 
down to the close of the national independence in the century 
following. The poetical productions of this period are too 
nur.:erous to receive more than a passing notice in this cursory 
sketch. There are still extant three poems by Meilir, one of 
them a re.narkable ode, full of elevated religious sentiment and 
written in his old age on the " Marw Ysgafn," the placid dying 
of the bard : twelve by Gwalchmai, of which the most noted 
are the ode to Owain Gwvnedd, prince of North Wales, and a 
hymn to nature, ?o skillful in" diction, so flowing in its melody, 
and so lofty in thought and aspiration, that it has not improperly 
been compared with what Wordsworth has written on the 
same theme : a larger number by Cvnddelw, who was fidy 
called Prydydd i^fawr, the great poet, and whose fame sur- 
passes that of any contemporary both for mastery of the lan- 
guage and for rhythmic grace and power: five by Einion, the 
son of Gwalchmai, and an inheritor of the rare genius of his 
father : eight by Hvwel ab Owain Gwvnedd, prince as well as 
poet, who sang of war and love with a peculiar grace and charm 
alike of fancy and of rhythmic expression : and finally two by 
Owain Cvfeiliog, a Welsh prince celebrated alike in war and 
literature, a patron of bards and himself a bard of great promi- 



14 



EDWARD D. MORRIS, 



nence and excellence. One of the two odes of Cyfeiliog is 
entitled the ** HlrlSls," and is in substance a princely song of 
welcome to the chieftains who have shared with him in a recent 
victory. The Hirlas was a drinking-horn, long and blue, rim- 
med with silver, and capable of containing a large libation : and 
the poet imagines his noble guests gathered around him at the 
table in his own palace,* and bids his cup-bearer fill the horn, 
and carry it round from warrior to warrior, while he sings the 
praises of each, their valor, their loyalty, their successes and 
triumphs, in strains of peculiarly graceful melody. Those who 
have fallen in battle are also celebrated in appropriate verse ; 
and the horn goes round and round, until all have tasted the 
flowing mead, and have received the royal commendation, when 
the poem concludes with the words : 

'* Now, my boy, thy task is o*er: 
Thou shalt fill the horn no more. 
Long may the King of kings protect 
And crown with bliss my friends elect ; 
Where liberty and truth reside. 
And virtue, truth's immortal bride, 
There may we altogether meet, 
And former times renew in converse sweet!" 

Two things may properly attract our attention before we leave 
this interesting period : the large infusion of Christian thought 
and feeling, and the special prominence given to music, in con- 
junction with these poetic productions. Mr. Gladstone in 
in his address at the national Eisteddfod held at Wrexham this 
autumn spoke with enthusiasm of the Welsh as a deeply religi- 
ous people — a religious people from the time when they har- 
bored the old Christian religion in the fourth, fifth and sixth 
centuries, while it was driven out of the great bulk of English 
counties. The tribute is justly paid, and he who reads the 
*Marw Ysgafn' of Meilir or the religious poems of Cynddelw, 
or even the " Hirlas" of Cyfeiliog, will not fail to see that at 
that period at least if not before, Christianity had wroyght 
itself permanently and inextricably into the conviction and life 
of the people. 

The harp also had by this time taken the place of honor 

4 One who has journeyed along the Welsh coast from Conway round through Bangor 
and Caernarvon, by Harlech to Aberystwyth and beyond, and has seen the old castle ruins 
perched like eagles on many a high hill or craggy summit overlooking the sea. much like 
those that make the Rhine so beautiful as well as historic a river, cannot &il to have had 
tome aew impre%s\oM 9LS lo i\it manner in which these old Welsh prinees and chiefuins 
Ji^cd mad Oourished ia iheir strong abodes seven centuritt ago. 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE OF WALES. 15 

which it has ever since held as the elect instrument of music 
among the Welsh. Is there not a suggestive key to some of 
the special qualities in any race or nation, to be discovered in 
what we find to be their favorite instruments of music ? The 
barbaric monotone of the drum, the thin whistle of the fife, the 
blatant outcry of the bugle, the wheezy droning of the bag- 
pipe, — are they not all indicative of elements and tendencies 
inherent constitutionally in the people who adopt and cherish 
them severally as their chosen mode of instrumental melody ? 
The Hebrew and the Welsh have found their musical ear best 
satisfied with the harp ; and of the two nationalities the latter 
has been by far the most constant and enthusiastic in its devo- 
tion. To praise the harp, to sing of its graceful form and 
tender melodies, to extol it above all other instruments of music, 
has ever been a grateful task to the Cymric music. One of the 
poets speaks of it as having : 

*' laith enaid ar ei thannau */' 

(The language of the ftoul on its strings.) 

and another declares with enthusiasm that there are 

" Mil o leisiau nielysion. 
M61 o hyd ym mhola hon." 

(A thousand sweet voices, all of thetn honey. 
Incarnate in this.) 

and a third, remembering perchance that the harp is the only 

instrument that finds mention in the apocalyptic descriptions of 

heaven, sings of it, 

*'Odlau saint yw adlais hon, 
Llais yn fawl llys nefolion.'* 

(Its notes are as the odes of the sanctified : 
It is a voice in the praise of the court of the heavenly ones.) 

From the t^^elfth century onward, we find the harp en- 
throned in the Welsh heart, and sounding its mellow strains 
in the public Eisteddfod, in the halls and feasts of the nobles, 
and even among the common people, as the elect instrument of 
the nation. The Eisteddfod also, or general congress or con- 
vention of bards and literary men, which had been instituted 
as early as the eighth or tenth century, became after the twelfth 
one of the established institutions of the land. Full provision 
was made for it by law; gifts and prizes were furnished by 
the reigning princes ; its annual convocations were attended by 
enthusiastic thousands, and its honors were sought with as much 
eagerness as ever animated warriors on the field of battle. Of 
the bards of the period extending fron\ the lwe\&\\ lo \iv^ c\o^^ 



1 6 EDWARD D, MORRIS. 

of the fourteenth century, we have the names of more thi n 
sixty whose productions have been preserved, and of nearly as 
many more whose writings have wholly perished w'th the lapse 
of time. Many scores of manuscript volumes of Cymric poetry 
belonging to this period, are still in existence, though within the 
last two centuries, several important collect ons ha\e been 
destroyed by accidental conflagrations; the H^ngwrt Col- 
lection alone is said to contain four hundred such volumes. 
And while the number of acknowledged bards steadily in- 
creased, the range of their themes increased also ; war, espe- 
cially after the fusion of Wales with England early in the cen- 
tury, ceased to be the main topic of song. With the reign of 
peace, and the civilizing changes that followed the better estab- 
lishment of civil order, and especially with the n.ore and more 
dominant influence of religion, Welsh poetry came to cover a 
much wider field, and to present itself to view in forns at once 
more varied and much more elaborate. 

It would be a pleasant task to speak of some among the 
more conspicuous poets of this eara, and especially of Dafvdd 
AB GwiLYM, with his hundred songs to his beloved Morfudd, 
his beautiful ode to the nightingale, his many hymns of nature 
and of devotion. Gwvlvm has been styled the Can.brian 
Petrarch, and a high authority has said that no modern poets 
sing more sweetly of the woodland, the wild flowers, the voice 
of birds, and the other charms of external nature. It would be 
pleasant also to carry your thought onward into the fifteenth 
and sixteenth centuries, and to bring into view the rapidly 
increasing mass of Welsh literature, the still greater elaborate- 
ness and richness and power of the national poetry, the growth 
of theological and religious productions, illustrative of the won- 
derful change which Christianity had wrought in the heart and 
life of the people. It would be still more pleasant to speak 
even in outline of what has transpired in the intellectual life of 
the principality of Wales during the past three hundred years : — 
to tell the story of other poets even greater than those already 
named ; of modern authors whose productions are worthy of a 
wider range than a principality so small could furnish ; of the 
great preachers of Wales such as Christmas Evans and John 
Elias, whose power in the pulpit as exhibited in their terse 
and potent diction, their graphic imagery, their poetic and 
oratorical skill, their religious faith and fervor, has never been 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE OF WALES, 17 

surpassed in modern times.'; to describe particularly those 
peculiarities of Welsh poetry, its remarkable rhythm and grace, 
the sweetness of its melody, its varied and difificult measures, 
its singular alliteration {cynghanedd) or repetition of certain 
letters within the lines, as well as its facile rhyming both within 
and at the close of each succeeding measure, — all of which com- 
bine to give it a unique place in the poetry either of ancient or of 
modem times. 

But at this point the stream widens and widens, so that one 
can hardly see from shore to shore. Craving your indulgence 
therefore. Gentlemen of the Association, I venture in closing 
this cursory address to make some brief plea for the closer 
study of the Welsh language and literature, and for the eleva- 
ting of that literature and language to a far higher place than is 
generally accorded to it. Professor Rhys in his lectures on 
*' Celtic Heaihendomy^ quotes a distinguished German scholar 
as saying that the great attraction of Keltic philology consists 
in the fact that every haul of the net, without exception, brings 
in a rich spoil. And Rhys himself broadens the assertion so 
as to make it include Keltic archaeology, myth, history and 
religion, as well as Keltic speech. It is to be remembered that 
this old Cymraeg has preserved its integrity and vitality through 
a long period and in defiance of most serious besetments, and is 
at this hour not only richer in its vocabulary, more cultivated in 
form, more available and effective in common use, but also more 
ardendy loved, more enthusiastically spoken than ever before ; 
in the highest sense a living language still, and destined even in 
the presence of English laws, English commerce, English cul- 
ture, to be spoken and written within its mountain home, it may 
be for centuries to come. It is also to be remembered that in 
comparison with the fading speech of the Gwyddel and the Scot, 
•or the other kindred dialects of the original Keltic tongue, or 
indeed with the other languages of northern Europe, the Welsh is 
still eminendy a productive language, with a vigorous and 
rapidly developing literature, not in the department of poetry 
alone, but likewise in biography and history, in various branches 
of theology doctrinal and practical, and to some extent even in 
fiction and romance. Furthermore, the many close relations in 
sound, in form, in grammatical structure and in other aspects, 
which this Keltic tongue sustains to those more conspicuous 
languages that are indigenous in central and in eastern Europe, 

5 • Some of the Great Preachers of Wales,' by Rbv. Owen Jones, M. A. 



i8 EDWARD D, MORRIS. 

tend largely to increase the claim it presents to scholarly 
attention and study. Nor is this claim lessened but rather 
vastly increased if we take into the account also its remark- 
able affinities with those ancient languages, — the Hebrew, the 
Greek, the Latin— from which the other modern tongues of 
the European continent have derived so large a proportion of 
their vocabulary, their structure, and their value as media of 
cultivated thought. To a language so remarkable as this in 
both its nature and its relations, a language at once ancient and 
modern, an Association such as yours, Gentlemen, cannot turn 
a languid eye or an indifferent ear. 



I. — The Rhetorical Tendency in Undergraduate Courses, 
By MORTON W. EASTON, Ph. D., 

PROFESSOR OP COMPARATIVE PHILOLOGY, AND INSTRUCTOR IN 
FRENCH IN THE UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA, PHILADELPHIA. 

In the undergraduate classes in modern languages, there is a 
certain line of work to be pursued by every teacher, whatever 
be the further details to which his taste, the direction of his own 
private studies, or his conception of the demands of his chair 
may lead him to give most emphasis. This line of work, briefly 
stated, consists in teaching such matters, lexical and grammati- 
cal, as are needed for the purpose of simple translation, from the 
English or into the English. 

But every teacher, with the slightest tinge of enthusiasm, will 
do something more. He may prefer to give much time to 
the scientific study of the growth of the forms and syntax. This 
kind of work should be neglected by no one. Or his work may 
be chiefly rhetorical, using the word in a very wide and perhaps 
partly inaccurate sense, his course being conducted as an "Arts " 
course, according to the older conception of the scope and pur- 
pose of the courses in the classical tongues. Since I believe 
that this latter line of work is coming to be neglected, it has 
seemed to me worth while to put in a brief plea in its behalf, as 
something that should be the central point in our undergraduate 
instruction, and moreover formally emphasized in our post- 
graduate courses. 

No one can doubt that the scientific study of the growth of the 
forms and syntax of the modern languages must, in the near 
future, be pursued, and should be pursued, with even more 
energy and enthusiasm than at present. There are not wanting 
indications that the comparative philology of the ancient and 
the extinct branches of Indo-germanic speech is soon to seek 
from the philology of the modern tongues the key to some of 
its numerous unsolved problems, and I, for one, look to modern 
Romance and Germanic philology for the antidote to much of 
the dogmatism of nearly all of the best recent work in the 
remoter field. It is only in the full records of the modern lan- 
gtiages that are to be found ample illustration of all the varieties 
of phonetic processes, real and not hypothetical. Here and 
here alone is aflbrded a firm basis for reasoning upon the incep- 



20 MORTON IV, E ASTON. 

tion of dialects, and furthermore upon the very important ques- 
tions relating to the tendency to variation on the part of the 
individual, and the manner in which he is influenced by the 
community in which he lives. Just as the chemistry and biology 
of the fossil is founded upon the processes observed in living 
organisms, so must the deductions of the philology of the mod- 
ern tongues become the norm for the past. 

I have felt it necessary to speak in this emphatic manner of 
the immense and growing importance of Romance and Ger- 
manic linguistics, lest any one should misunderstand the import 
of what I am about to say. 

The proper function of the teacher of the undergraduate is of 
a different, and in some respects, of a higher order. To use the 
terminology of college faculties, he should be, preeminently, a 
teacher in the " Department of Arts.'' He should have to do 
with the thought embodied in the texts read by his class, and 
with the literary form, national and individual, in which this 
thought finds expression. He is a member of the guild of lit- 
erature, and it is only as such, and not as an imperfect imitator 
of the teachers of the exact sciences that he, or the teacher 
of any other tongue, dead as well as living, can attain to the 
true dignity of his post. Above all, the circumstances of the 
present time make it more than ever incumbent upon him to 
take this view of his function. 

At no time in modern history has purely literary culture fallen 
so low as at present. The devotion paid to the physical sciences 
and, quite recently, to sociology, seem to have absorbed well- 
nigh all the energy of this decade. Apart from writers of fiction, 
how short the list of English, French and German authors read 
for their form ! And, even in fiction, English writers, during 
the last three or four years, have come to Subordinate every- 
thing to the interest of the plot ; a condition of things of which 
the detective novel is the natural outcome. 

The friends of Greek and Latin regard these branches of 
study as the main stronghold of culture. May it be long before 
Greek is dropped from our rosters, and yet it may be seriously 
questioned whether the teachers of Greek and Latin are not 
evacuating their post. — Archaeology, studied not as a branch of 
aesthetics, but as a historical science only; comparative phil- 
ology of a kind that knows nothing but phonetics and rarely 
takes into account the meaning of a form, and, I may add, is 
in this unfaithful even to history ; historical disquisitions talking 



RHETORICAL TENDENCY. 21 

of the growth of institutions and then absokitely silent as to 
their social value (all in themselves, and, as far as they go, signs, 
to be sure, of a healthful activity) seem to be usurping the 
entire attention of most scholars. Where, in all the vast mass 
of recent philological literature are we to look for any trace of 
the general study of Homer as the divine poet? Greek and 
Latin have been infected by the exclusive impulse to weigh, 
measure and count. This work must indeed be done; the 
archaic Aphrodite must be studied by every one who would 
righdy understand the work of the best period, but all this 
study of origins, in whatever field we find it, is work of a partly 
ephemeral and in one sense of a lower order and should be 
regarded merely as the road to something else. We could 
make scholars in this way who should remain essentially bar- 
barians. 

I repeat it, philology, in neither the ancient nor the modern 
field, has anything to gain in contending with the methods of 
physics and biology, if we are to stop short with them. In 
physical and biological science it is possible, in the first place, 
to reason with a great degree of precision, and then every 
advance opens up a wider and more inspiring landscape. We 
can hardly say so much for the science of language ; it is not 
an exact science, and its deductions run out into an infinity of 
petty detail. Any one who has had the opportunity of conduct- 
ing classes capable of comparing mere linguistics with physics, 
or biology, knows well that, when the two are thus directly 
brought into contract, it is but little to the advantage of the 
former. What should we say of the teacher of psychology who 
should confine his work to the anatomical tissues of the brain 
and nerves ? No ! to stop here is to relinquish our distinctive 
claims to respectful attention. Language is an art; it is not 
merely the product of certain historical factors, it is an art, and 
the study of its application as an art is worthy of our best 
energies as educators of undergraduates. 

Let me reiterate that nothing can be farther from my mind 
than to depreciate a kind of work in which my position as 
teacher of comparative philology requires me to spend my life 
and yet, if I must choose between the two extremes, I prefer 
the rhetoricians of the first quarter of this century to the living 
scholar who cares for nothing but rotation, palatalization and 
vowel absorption, and never stops to ask what are the special 
artistic uses to which the language, as shaped by these processes, 



22 MORTON W. E ASTON, 

is applicable. We must unite the two ; one to preponderate in 
our postgraduate schools and the other in our undergraduate 
courses. But in neither department are we to forget that the 
study of the stem is to lead to the better understanding of the 
flower and the fruit. 

Now, if we contrast the position of the teacher of Greek and 
Latin with that of the teacher of the modern tongues, we shall 
easily find some reasons why the latter should feel himself more 
particularly drawn towards this treatment of his material, and 
why he may hope for even a greater measure of success. I 
shall be brief, for I believe that I am telling a twice-told tale. 
In the first place, for a rapidly increasing number of students, 
the instructions in the modern languages is the only source of 
culture in the academical course. There is in physical and 
biological science room enough to develop all the mental powers, 
those of the imagination* as well as the logical powers, and yet 
the perhaps unavoidable professional tendency of the scientific 
departments of our colleges and universities is to convert men 
into mere wheels in the social machine, useful and active wheels, 
no doubt, but wheels nevertheless. In our recitation rooms, if 
anywhere, must be given the impulse that is to lead to the for- 
mation of a well-rounded man, one not only able to discharge 
his professional duties in a useful and lucrative manner, but also 
able to sympathize with all that vast field of thought and 
emotion subsumed in the old expression " the humanities." 

Secondly, the work of the modern language teacher is far 
more certain of immediate success. Very few undergraduate 
students of Thucydides can give a clear account of the aesthetic 
value of the Greek period ; still fewer, if any, attain to any real 
understanding of the stylistic features of Thucydides himself. 
To the undergraduate, Lysias, Demosthenes and Thucydides 
differ merely as hard, harder, hardest. Nor does the fault He 
altogether with the instructor. But in French, or German, our 
advanced classes attain, or may attain, to some degree of per- 
ception of both the national and the personal characteristics of 
the author in their hands. They may be taught too feel them, 
to enjoy them, and, more than that, they may be taught to point 
out the precise source of their enjoyment to others. Few senior 
classes relish Aristophanes or Plautus; even a freshman 
class will enjoy a bright French comedy. 

But the modern languages, though able to hold their own as 

tneans of ** education," can do this only by the study of larger 

b'tersuy wholes, as distfngfuished from that study of the single 



RHETORICAL TENDENCY. 



23 



period, or group of periods, possible in one recitation of the 
single student A Greek period, considered simply as afford- 
ing material for mental drill, is incomparably richer than any- 
thing in French, German or English. No modern language 
possesses anything approaching its wonderful, even varying 
adaptation of form to local significance. A brief passage from 
Thucydides, compared with one of equal length from Gibbon, 
is like a masterpiece in color compared with a sketch done in 
chalk. And yet, the modern manages, in the end, to say or at 
least to imply as much. Modern thought and modern books 
are in no whit inferior to ancient thought and ancient books. 
Our lyric is superior to the ancient. In history, the wide com- 
pass possible to the modern, has produced many books better 
worth the student's attention than Thucydides. Our drama is 
in no wise inferior to the Greek, either in comedy or tragedy. 
But in all these departments, the literary value of the modern 
must often be sought in passages of a certain length rather than 
in the detached period. 

You may give whatever name you will to the department of 
work whose claims I have been advancing. Perhaps it includes 
much more than properly appertains to the chair of rhetoric. 
Call it what you will, it will, I hope, find its proper place in our 
faculties of philology. No postgraduate student deserves a 
postgraduate degree who does not, in addition to showing a 
thorough knowledge of the historical development of a tongue, 
render a good account of the spirit of the documents involved 
and of their artistic or aesthetic value. 



ll.—Danie's Paradise: Cantos XX IV- XX VL 
By EDWARD L. WALTER, Ph. D., 

PROFESSOR OF ROMANCE LANGUAGES IN THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHI- 
GAN, ANN ARBOR, MICH. 

The xxivth, xxvth and xxvith books of the *Paradiso' consist 
chiefly of what has always been something of a puzzle to nie, 
the examination of Dante by Peter, James and John, on 
Faith, Hope and Love. The allegory of the *Divina Commedia,' 
clear enough in its main outlines, becomes matter for endless 
discussion as soon as we descend into details, but nowhere else, 
so far as I have observed, is there any difficulty in interpreting 
the general significance of so large a body of verse as these 
three books, if we take the literal sense, or in adapting it to 
some one theory, if we take the allegorical sense. The fact that 
I do not find any discussion of this puzzling examination in the 
Dante literature accessible to me, has made me somewhat 
fearful of committing an offense very common in the study of 
all masterpieces in all literatures ; but I console myself by the 
reflection, that in the vast number of Dante students who have 
found difficulties where none existed, I should feel myself in 
good company. 

Let me briefly recall the situation which seems to me in need 
of explanation. Dante has passed through the horrors of 
Hell, he has climbed the hill of Purgatory, he has seen the tem- 
poral and the eternal fires, he has walked in the earthly Para- 
dise, he has drunk of Lethe and Eunoe, after having suffered 
the reproaches of Beatrice and gazed upon the mystic pro- 
cession of the Church. He has ascended into the heavens, 
passing from one heaven to another by the sweet power which 
comes from the eyes of Beatrice, and has now reached the 
heaven of the fixed stars, where abide the Apostles and Saints 
of the Old and New Testaments. The Divine Rose, which had 
been on earth the hostelry of our desire, had followed into the 
Empyrean its own seed, and after it each white gleam had 
reached upward with its summit to reveal to the dazzled poet 
its deep affection for Mary. Thus stretching out towards the 
Mother of Christ, they sung in seraphic tones, " Regina C.oeli.'' 

Then Beatrice, his faithful guide through the glories of 
heaven, beseeches the company elect to the great supper of the 
Lamb benedight, to bedew somewhat him to whom the Grace 



DANTE'S PARADISO, 



25 



of God has given a foretaste of what falls from their tables. The 
flames revolve in ecstasy, and from one of the blessed carols 
comes forth a happy fire of supreme brightness. Him, the 
light of St. Peter, Beatrice implores to examine Dante on 
points light and grave concerning the faith by means of which 
he walked- upon the seawater. 

" If he love well, and hope well, and believe, 
From thee *tis hid not ; for thou hast thy sight 
There where depicted everything is seen. 
But since this kingdom has made citizens 
By means of the true faith, to glorify it 
*Tis well he have the chance to speak thereof." 

Then Peter asks the poet what is faith, why Paul defines it 
as the substance of things hoped for, whether he has it in his 
possession, whence he obtained it, what authorizes him to con- 
sider the Old and New Testaments as divine, what assured him 
that the miracles there recounted ever took place, and finally 
asks him to state what he believes. When Dante had finished 
his confession, the apostolic light gives him its benediction, even 
as a lord embraces his servant from whom he hears what 
pleaseth him. Into the faith that maketh all souls known to 
God, thus entered Dante. 

Now the baron who draws so many pilgrims to Galicia, left 
the group whence Peter had come, and was besought by 
Beatrice to examine the poet concerning hope. So James 
asks what hope is, what degree of hope was his, whence he 
obtained it, and what he hopes for. " Sperent in te " resounded 
from on high, and all the heavenly carols answered responsive 
to the words. 

Now issued from that same band a light of such exceeding 
brightness that the poet became as one who by seeing the sun 
doth become sightless. It was the light of him who was elected 
from the cross to the great office. John asks him to what his 
soul is aimed, who aimed it at such a target, if other cords 
besides draw him to God. At his satisfactory answer, a sweet 
song resounded throughout heaven, " Holy, Holy, Holy!" and 
the radiance of Beatrice chased from before his eyes every 
mote, and he saw better than before. Now from the light of 
the first soul that ever was created, from the light of Adam, he 
besought an answer to the doubts that beset him concerning 
divers matters, and his doubts were set at rest. Then began 
all Paradise to sing, " Glory, glory, glory to Father, Son and 



26 EDWARD L, WALTER, 

Spirit," and the melody made the poet inebriate, forcing its way 
into the soul by sight as well as by hearing, for it seemed a 
smile of the universe. There follow upon this the magnificent 
denunciations by Peter of the corruptions of the Holy See, in 
which I find no special difficulty. All that follows seems to me 
to enter more easily into the general scheme of the poem than 
these examinations on theological dogmas. 

For consider ; Dante is in Heaven ; as far as any knowledge 
of these things is necessary to enter there, his presence alone 
was sufficient evidence of his orthodoxy. Moreover, the faithful, 
even in Purgatory, are practically secure against all assaults of 
spiritual enemies ; even they who in Ante-Purgatory were wait- 
ing until the time should arrive when should begin the work 
proper of their purification, delayed by their contumacy while 
in life, were guarded at night by two angels, who put to flight 
the serpent that gave to Eve the bitter food. Even those who 
in the first circle of Purgatory are purified of their pride, have 
no need to pray for themselves, that they be delivered from 
temptation, but only for them whom they have left behind. If 
the sufferers in Purgatory were safe, how much more the blessed 
in Paradise, who enjoy the sight of God himself? 

Dante, to be sure, is in the literal sense, a living man among 
the dead, and as such may perhaps be thought subject to temp- 
tation when he shall return to earth. But he is one who had by 
the grace of God a foretaste of what falls from the table of the 
the company elect to the great supper of the Lamb benedight, 
who as the Emperor of Heaven had willed, had found himself 
face to face with His Counts in the most secret chamber. 
Moreover, nearly all those with whom he speaks in Purgatory 
and Paradise, Manfred, Buonconte, Guinicelli, Justinian, 
Cacciaguida, assume the return of Dante to the world after 
the completion of his tremendous journey, with purified moral 
perceptions as well as with purified mental vision. 

It is too repeatedly affirmed that there is no need in Paradise 
of question and answer, as far as the saints are concerned. 

" Not that our knowledge may be greater made 
By speech of thine, but to accustom thee 
To tell thy thirst, that we may give thee drink," 

says Beatrice, and Dante thereupon makes his request 
of Cacciaguida, to whom all things contingent are visible 
in the eternal aspect, concerning his future life. And in the 
very passage I am discussing, Beatrice declares that from 



DANTE'S PARA D ISO, 



27 



St. Peter is not hidden if Dante love well, hope well 
and believe, but he must be given the means to speak of 
the true faith, which makes citizens of Paradise. It might seem 
at first sight as if this answered the question, as far at least as 
the literal sense was concerned, but if so, it is an answer which 
is itself in need of an interpretation, like too many of the solu- 
tions w« get in this world to more important and puzzling 
problems than this. For it is hardly a satisfactory answer to 
my wonder at this strange demand, to expound in Heaven itself 
some rather difficult theological questions, a demand addressed 
to a living man, brought by the special and astounding grace of 
God through the torments of Hell and the pains of Purgatory 
and the lower spheres of Heaven, until he is ready to enter into 
the very presence of God Himself, — addressed to such a man 
by beatified creatures who see by direct vision of the face of 
God, not only the fullness of those virtues of which they ask 
Dante to tell, but also what Dante himself will answer to 
their demand ; it is no satisfactory answer to my wonder, to say 
that they want to give him a chance to tell what he knows. 
When we ask questions, not for our own information, but that 
another may speak, it must be for his good, or at least that 
some good may come to 'some other being or to some cause. 
Dante did not need this chance because of any doubt concern- 
ing his progress in the heavenly regions, for this was practi- 
cally assured. That his " immense affection " was somewhat 
bedewed from that fount whence the saints always drirU|, by 
this chance to affirm his faith, hope and love, cannot be douDtful 
after the prayer of Beatrice; but — "somewhat bedewed," 
was it worth while to spend three books in reciting what should 
be only "somewhat*' gratifying to his immense affection? 

But is there any cause for the sake of which it might seem 
more probable that this declaration was desirable ? The glory 
of God, no doubt, requires mortals always to ascribe praise to 
him, even in Heaven, but there again the mere fact of the 
presence of a mortal amid the splendors of Heaven, is a greater 
proof of His glory than can possibly be given by spending 
three books in defining some theological conceptions, of which 
the clear understanding must first have been furnished him, in 
part at least, by the very mediation of those who put the ques- 
tions to him. The same objection applies to supposing that the 
joy of the saints who hear him declare his faith, hope and love, 
can be the cause of their questions and of his declarations. That 



28 EDWARD L, WALTER, 

their joy is greater from hearing him, must be supposed, but 
that it is so much greater as to make it natural to spend three 
books in recounting an examination, the result of which they 
knew perfectly well beforehand, is hard to believe. Nor is it 
easy to imagine any other cause for it. 

These then are some of the difficulties which present them- 
selves to me when I try to understand the place these three 
books hold in the plan of the poem, when taken in the literal 
sense. But if they can be explained satisfactorily in connec- 
tion with the allegorical teaching that the poem was primarily 
intended to convey, it is a matter of no very great importance 
if they do not fit in exactly with the literal sense. For though 
it is to be remembered that the literal must precede and include 
the allegorical sense, as Dante himself tells us in the ' Convito,* 
it is impossible to hold any poet so strictly to account in a poem 
of so great a length as not to allow of inconsistencies which are 
not too gross, even of an occasional lapse of memory, if the 
essential idea is not too sharply contradicted. Moreover, in the 
allegories of some of Dante's masters, notably of Richard 
OF St. Victor and of St. Augustine, as is evident from the 
elaborate analyses of the * De Quantitate Animae ' and of the 
* De Contemplatione ' of the one and of the other, given by 
LuBiN in his edition of the ' Commedia,' there is a certain 
fluidity of conception which allowed greater variety of presen- 
tation than would be considered excusable by the more rigid 
notions of consistency of our day. This was even a matter of 
theo^ ; St. Augustine in the ' Confessions ' expressly says 
that it can be argued properly that the inspired authors have 
foreseen all the truth that can be drawn from the Scriptures, or 
even if the authors themselves have not seen it, the spirit that 
inspired them has foreseen it. And Dante himself says in the 
' Vita Nuova,* where he has explained the persistent recurrence 
of the number nine in connection with Beatrice, as indicating 
that she was a miracle wrought by the Trinity, the square of 
which is nine, that perhaps others may sea a more subtle reason, 
but that this satisfies him. It is obvious that this more subtle 
reason, if found, would not discredit in his judgment the expla- 
nation which he had already off*ered. 

We must not be surprised then if the allegory of the * Divine 
Comedy ' assumes a different aspect, according to the position 
of him who views it. But some one of the several theories as to 
the correct interpretation of the allegory of the poem should 



DANTE'S PAR AD ISO. 



29 



be able satisfactorily to explain this discussion of the theological 
virtues, held in Heaven itself between the saints who needed no 
enlightenment, and Dante, who also, as they knew perfectly 
well, needed no enlightenment, at whose answers the heavenly 
hosts, to whom nothing is contingent, who knew what they 
would be before they were given, sang hymns of glory and 
praise. 

It can hardly be expected that I shall discuss at any length 
the difficult problem of the proper understanding of the alle- 
gory which is contained in the ' Commedia.* A thorough dis- 
cussion would demand, not only more time and patience on the 
part of those who hear me than I am bold enough to ask for, 
but also more erudition and a keener power of discrimination 
than I possess. But something must be said, if only as a guide 
in the interpretation of the passage I am discussing. 

In the first place, what is an allegory ? It is important to 
remember that for the purpose of this paper we do not so much 
need to know what the modern and, as we probably flatter our- 
selves, more correct use of the word is, but what Dante him- 
self means by the term. The word allegorical is used by 
Dante in his letter to Can Grande to include all the senses 
except the literal which can be found in any passage or incident. 
It is somewhat significant also, when we consider his relations 
to Bonaventura and Hugh and Richard of St. Victor, 
that he calls these senses ynystici sensiis, mystic meanings. 

But allegory had for Dante a peculiar meaning of its own, 
in addition to the general meaning which he gives it. He does 
not define it in either sense further than to say that it comes 
from the Greek -AWalo^, meaning different. Nor is his use of 
the word sufficient to make his meaning perfectly clear. The be- 
ginning of the cxivth Psalm, so well known to Dante students, 
** When Israel went out of Egypt, the house of Jacob from a 
people of strange language, Judah was his sanctuary, and Israel 
his dominion," is interpreted to mean by allegory our redemp- 
tion by Christ, that is, one fact, our redemption by Christ, is 
signified by another fact, the departure of Israel out of Egypt. 
The moral sense of the same passage he declares to be the 
turning of our souls from the mourning and misery of sin to a 
state of grace, that is, we are enjoined to take a certain course 
of action by being told that another, which we are expected to 
see was analogous, was taken formerly by somebody else. The 
anagogical sense he declares to be the departure of a blessed 



30 EDWARD L, WALTER. 

soul from the slavery of this corruption to the liberty of eternal 
glory, that is, the glorious end that awaits all the faithful is 
revealed to us by telling us the historical fact of the final depar- 
ture of an enslaved people out of Egypt. Here, as before, we 
are expected to see the analogy for ourselves. 

It is plain that Dante, even if he recognizes a special mean- 
ing to the term allegory, uses it, or at least would not hesitate 
to use it, to include conceptions so far apart as the communica- 
tion of one fact by another, the inculcation of moral teaching 
by a historical fact, and an expression of our hopes and aspira- 
tions by the same historical fact, and that in his opinion all these 
diverse senses could properly be discovered or put into the 
same passage or book. It is easy to laugh at some of the ex- 
planations given of Dante^s great poem-, and indeed nothing 
can be further from our modern ways of thinking and express- 
ing our thoughts than such far-fetched analogies and the kind 
of ingenuity needed to find them, but the ease of our laughter 
is not always proportioned to the justness of its cause. I know 
of nothing more instructive in this respect in recent Dante 
literature than the pages used by Lubin in the studies prefixed 
to his edition of the * Com media' in giving a detailed account 
of some of the mediaeval treatises which might be expected to 
throw some light on the matter. Indeed he finds even in late 
classic times, in Macrobius and Fulgentius, the beginnings 
of this extravagant use of allegory, but he finds his best ex- 
amples in the Church Fathers, especially the mystics. He finds 
almost an absolute correspondence between the * De contempla- 
tione ' of Richard of St. Victor and the * Commedia,' so 
that it seems almost as if he supposes that Dante drew from* 
the mystic the whole plan of his poem. The correspondence 
does not seem so perfect to me as to him, but he has shown 
enpugh to make it clear that this sort of allegory commended 
itself to Dante's taste, which was also plain enough from the 
letter to Can Grande, where he refers to this, and to treatises 
of St. Bernard and St. Augustine, as sufficient to shut the 
mouths of those who object to his treating of such high matters. 

Now if the * Convito * contains much, if even the * Vita 
Nuova' contains some things, which show this tendency to 
interpret all that is done or said, all that happens or has hap- 
pened, as intended to convey some subtle lesson to man, it is to 
be expected that in the most important work of Dante's life he 
should have clothed the lessons he sought to give in the mystic 



DANTETS PAR AD ISO, 



31 



dress, so familiar and dear to him. There are indications that 
he did not suppose that the allegory would be clear in all its 
details to everybody ; if the main lesson was clear, and of that 
there can be no doubt, he could safely trust to the more culti- 
vated part of his readers, to whom teaching given in this way 
was a familiar thing, to discover the more recondite lessons that 
were hidden there. 

** Here, Reader, fix thine eyes well on the truth. 
For now indeed so subtile is the veil, 
Surely to penetrate within is easy.*' 

This he says, when in Ante- Purgatory the Angels descend to 
protect the penitent souls from the serpent which came ' twixt 
grass and flowers. And in fact it is not very difficult to see 
here that the serpent represents the tempter, and the Angels the 
divine grace and love which guard from his attack. But even 
here, so foreign is the very conception to our modern notions, 
that some commentators, not very many, 'tis true, have tried to 
give the passage a meaning directly contrary to the obvious 
one. to make Dante tell us that the allegory here is so difficult 
that it can easily be overlooked. But if the veil of allegory is 
here so thin, in the opinion of the poet, it is evident that he 
knows that it is not everywhere so easily pierced. 

The main lesson of the * Commedia * is eSsy to perceive, 
indeed it is hard to overlook it, for any attentive reader, even 
without the help, that Dante himself gives us, but it is interest- 
ing to hear the poet tell us in his letter to Can Grande, what 
he intended or hoped to accomplish by this great and crowning 
Igbor of his life. The subject of the book, he tells us, is, taken 
allegorically, man, as, by merit or demerit through freedom of 
the will, he becomes subject to the justice of reward and punish- 
ment. The end of the work, both taken as a whole, and of the 
* Paradiso * in particular, is to remove those who live in this life 
from the state of misery and lead them to a state of felicity. 
Most of the interpretations of the * Commedia ' go back nat- 
urally to this declaration ; so far as I know, only one is not 
founded on it, and that is the political one of Rossetti and 
Aroux. I only know this at second hand, but it is hard to 
believe that there are any of the more intelligent Dante 
students who now hold that the political teaching of the poem, 
in the ordinary sense of the word at least, is anything more than 
secondary and incidental. I have not been able to learn in 
detail even what the theory is, and thus do not know the more 



32 



EDWARD L. WALTER, 



or less plausible grounds for assertions which are in such flagrant 
opposition, not only to the most obvious meaning of the poem, 
but to the practically unanimous interpretation of all the com- 
mentators from Boccaccio down to the beginning of this cen- 
tury. In any case, it is impossible for me to conceive, in the 
absence of distinct accounts of what their speculation is, the 
part that Paradise can play in their scheme. If it represents the 
universal power of the Emperor, and the unquestioned suprem- 
acy of Ghibelline principles, then perhaps these declarations 
concerning the faith could be supposed to represent taking the 
oath of allegiance, or something of the sort, which might seem 
important enough to warrant spending some time to describe 
them. But while it might be possible to find an explanation 
which would harmonize pretty well with the situation, the theory 
itself is so wild that it is hardly worth while to spend any time 
over it. 

It is necessary to recur to Dante's own explanation of his 
purpose. But how shall we explain the explanation ? I do not 
need to consider at any length the theory that the poet means 
simply to warn men of the consequences of vice, to allure men 
by the rewards of virtue, so that they shall choose the service 
of God and desert the service of the Devil. Any acquaintance, 
even the most Superficial, with the * Convito * and the * Vita 
Nuova ' and the * Canzoniere ' makes any such position unten- 
able. That this is taught is of course beyond question, but 
that this only is taught, can be believed only by him who does 
not know or has forgotten that Dante means by allegory some- 
thing more than a moral tale ; certainly in Dante's own mind 
his great poem was not simply a more sublime ** Shepherd of 
Salisbury plain." It is certain that by some critics it is held a 
defect that Dante has tried to put into the ' Commedia' more 
than a bare recital of his imaginary journey, with such wealth 
of insight and power of poetic form as could be properly there 
employed, and it is equally certain that without this narrative 
form, accompanied as it is by extraordinary vigor and depth of 
conception and execution, it could never have reached the posi- 
tion it holds in the world's literature, however it might have been 
appreciated by critics and students. But it remains true that 
the allegory of the 'Commedia' contains vastly more than a 
simple admonition to men to flee from vice and pursue virtue. 
But even if it were not so, the passage I am discussing is no 
clearer. Men would certainly not be led to feel more ardor in 



DANTE'S PARADISO, 33 

the Christiaa life, by hearing that they were to be exan^iined in 
Heaven itself on points of doctrine, as had been the hero of a 
tale, which however glorious, was yet but a tale. 

To explain this problem, as .well as most other problems in 
the general interpretation of the * Divina Commedia,' a broader 
and deeper scheme must be found, which shall include the 
moral tale certainly, but also the more mystic interpretations of 
Dante's own statement of his purpose. This broader scheme 
most commentators who have treated the subject at all, have 
found or have thought that they have found. There are some 
points on which the differences are not very great. There is 
substantial unanimity as to the office of Dante himself in the 
* Commedia,' perhaps also as to that of the " Donna gentil nel 
ciel," and of Lucia. As Dante himself represents man, the 
reasoning animal, so the Donna gentil represents the Divine 
mercy, or prevenient grace, which moved Lucia, or illumina- 
ting grace, to send to the rescue of the wandering poet 
Beatrice, who here must, I think, be held to represent 
effectual gjace. 

But this can hardly be her office in the spheres of heaven ; 
effectual grace has already done its work, the poet has no further 
need of the grace that saves, but so much the more does he 
need help to reach the perfect state, as described by St. Augus- 
tine and Richard of St. Victor, in which the soul sees by 
intuition those truths even which are beyond or contrary to 
reason, and this help is furnished by the Divine science, by 
Theology, which itself is but the reason of man applied to 
Divine things. This double office of Beatrice is not foreign 
to the method of Dante's masters in allegory, nor is it in itself 
inconsistent. The higher reason — which is but another name for 
the science of Divine things and which, without a higher light 
than nature affords, could never ireach the certainty attained to 
evqn by the lower reason in earthly things when this higher 
light is given — becomes a most efficient, an indispensable aid to 
the attainment of the perfect state. This is the position of the 
mediaeval speculators, and I am not concerned with its meta- 
physical or theological correctness. 

This identification of Beatrice with the science of theology 
goes back at least as far as Benvenuto da Imola, and her 
identification with effectual grace dates at least as far back as 
Boccaccio, and seems to me still to explain most consistently 
and satisfactorily her position in the allegory. She receives the 



34 EDWARD L, WALTER, 

poet from Vergil, after his freewill has been declared free, 
upright and sound, and Vergil disappears. Thus when the 
lower reason, which deals only with what the human powers 
unaided can resolve, has done its work, when the cardinal vir- 
tues, whose symbols were already seen in the four stars which 
shone upon the travelers at the foot of the mount of Purgatory, 
have become the sure possession of man, there still remains for 
his attainment what can be given him by the higher reason 
alone, he still needs to be prepared for the perfect state of con- 
templation, and this preparation can be given him by the science 
of Divine things alone. Beatrice turns over the poet, when 
at last the Empyrean itself is reached, and the presence of God 
is to be revealed to him, to St. Bernard of Clairvaux, the 
contemplator. So the science of Divine things, which, though 
aided by supernatural light, must still proceed by faith and not 
by sight, gives way, as St. Bernard himself shows in the 
treatise referred to by Dante, to the intelligence, to the luce 
intelletiualy which needs not to investigate, and which, when 
attained, leaves nothing wanting to our blessedness. 

It is not necessary for my purpose to consider the significance 
of the other figures of the 'Commedia'; what Statius, 
Matelda, Cato, and the other personages who seem to be 
connected with the allegory are intended to represent, can have 
very little bearing upon determining the significance in the 
allegory of the examination which I am discussing. So much 
the more need is there to fix upon the meaning to be given to 
the chief figure himself, to the poet who tells the tale. That he 
represents man b scarcely to be doubted ; that this representa- 
tion of man in general gives us many details which are applica- 
ble only to Dante the poet, is beyond question. How can we 
reconcile these two facts, and further bring them into harmony 
with Dante's oft-cited declaration, that the end of his poem 
was to remove living men from the state of misery, and to lead 
them to a state of felicity ? 

This end can be attained either by showing men the punish- 
ments of vice and the rewards of virtue, in which may be 
included, as well as the material sufferings and joys, the internal 
unrest and tranquillity that attend upon the pursuit of vice and 
virtue ; or by exhortations addressed to that sense of right and 
wrong that may be presumed to exist in every man born and 
brought up under the teachings of the Christian religion ; or by 
simply stating the way in which one has already escaped from 



DANTE'S PARADISO. 



35 



the slavery of misery and reached the freedom of felicity. No 
doubt all these methods are used in the * Commedia' ; the bare 
recital of what the poet saw, contains the warning and admo- 
nition; the exhortations, not numerous enough to turn the 
poem into a sermon, are meant to be of no slight importance in 
leading the reader into the ways of virtue ; but the most im- 
portant way, because addressed only to those who have intel- 
lectual and spiritual insight sufficiendy keen to pierce through 
the veil of allegory which enshrouds it, is that in which is 
described the process by which one soul has already been puri- 
fied and disposed to mount upward to the stars, and there had 
tarried until his desire and will were equally turned by the love 
that moves the sun and the other stars. This method depends 
for its success, not only on the insight of those with whom it is 
employed, but also on the clearness of the presentation. 

It will not do for us to judge on this point from our own 
habits and opinions in respect to the use of allegory. It is not 
easy for us to put ourselves into the frame of mind which was 
so common then, and which is illustrated, to go no farther than 
Dante himself, in the disposition to give his camoni and son- 
nets a more forlorn and widowed appearance, by making his 
analyses precede instead of following, in his discovery of the 
singular frequency of the number nine in connection with 
Beatrice, and in its explanation. Those who seek only for 
literary excellence can but be thankful that Dante did not 
descend to the puerilities of personification of which mediaeval 
literature is so full. Allegory has not flourished in literature 
since Lessing dealt it such a vigorous blow in the * Laokoon/ 
and I certainly rejoice at it; great as is the intellectual and 
moral power shown in the allegory of the * Divina Com media,' 
if the poem depended upon these alone for its influence, it 
would long since have been lost to all but scholars and critics. 
" It is because," as an English critic says of another poet, " he 
appeals with perfect directness to the heart, the fancy and even 
to the ear, that he lives. If he did not do this successfully, 
winningly, with phrases and fancies that haunt the memory, 
that mingle with our musings on love and death and day and 
night, he would be a failure ; an artist with an esoteric jargon." 
But the allegory is there, and a careful study of it by those who 
are not insensible to the other and more obvious beauties, can 
only increase for them its power and its beauty. 

Now what gives this additional power and beauty is, in my 



36 EDWARD L, WALTER. 

opinion, the extraordinary force and truth with which is set forth 
the mediaeval theory of the process by which riian is rescued 
'from vice and sin, and carried forward until that perfect state is 
reached, to which it was held man could attain. Like all great 
ideas, so this must have contained a large element of truth to 
secure such universal acceptance, however its statement may 
have been colored by forms of expression ^hich seem to us 
often misleading and are certainly obsolete. 

The Empyrean in the poem must then represent the attain- 
ment of this perfect state, and the nine spheres through which 
the poet passes before reaching the very presence of God, the 
last stages of preparation for it, during which, as the mystics 
teach, the soul is fortified by the higher reason, the science of 
of Divine things, until it can bear the sight of the Most High, 
until it can both see and know the truth which is not only 
beyond the lower reason, but contrary to it. This point is 
reached when the theological virtues. Faith, Hope and Love, 
have been fully grasped, when the lower reason can do no more, 
when all that remains to complete the perfection of the soul can 
be secured only by the free grace of God. Thus St. Bernard, 
who is in the 'Commedia,' as in the books of the Church 
Fathers, the Contemplator, the representative of the Vita 
Contempiativa^ beseeches Mary for so much power that with 
his eyes he may uplift himself towards the uttermost salvation, 
that she would scatter from him every cloud of mortality, so that 
the chief pleasure be displayed to him. And from that time for- 
ward, what the poet saw was greatef than our discourse, and 
even the memory yielded to such excess. The keenness of the 
living ray, he says, would have bewildered him, if his eyes had 
been but averted from it. Hence he was bolder to bear, and 
fixed his sight upon the Light Eternal, so that his seeing was 
consumed. This must mean, as I think is certain from the com- 
parisons made by Lubin with St. Bernard and Richard of 
St. Victor, that the soul which has reached the perfect state 
sees by direct vision the truths which by souls less advanced in 
Divine things must either be accepted on authority, or reached 
by a laborious effort of ratiocination. 

Now this state has been reached, or nearly so, when, in the 
heaven of the fixed stars, Dante is examined by Peter, James 
and John, on Faith, Hope and Love. And in fact, what inter- 
venes between this scene and that where Dante, turning in the 
Empyrean to inquire of Beatrice of things concerning which 



DANTE'S PARADISO. 



37 



he was in suspense, beheld an old man, dad like the glorious 
people ? After Peter's denunciations of the corruptions of the 
Papacy, the poet directs one last look at the earth, at the sug- 
gestion of Beatrice, and sees its littleness, as of a petty 
threshing-floor. So never is the absolute littleness of earthly 
things so apparent as when the soul is about to be severed from 
them permanently,4)y absorption in the contemplation of Divine 
things. Then he ascends with his guide into the Primum 
Mobile, where he gazes upon the Angelic Hierarchy circling 
around the Divine centre. Beatrice explains to him the 
order of that hierarchy, and its correspondence to the nine 
spheres of Paradise. She tells him of the creation of the 
angels, of the rebellion of some among them, and of their fall. 
All of these things are subjects with which the discursive reason 
cannot deal, or at best can only consider them after data which 
must be furnished by authority. He ascends with his guide 
into the Empyrean, to the light intellectual replete with love. 
No sooner had this living light flashed around him, than he 
perceived himself to be uplifted over his own power. Then 
came the new vision of the River of Light and of the Celestial 
Rose, which are foreshadowing prefaces of the truth, not diffi- 
cult in itself, but only for him whose vision is defective. In the 
vastncss of the Rose, his vision was not lost, but comprehended 
all the quantity and quality of that gladness. So the mind of 
him who has in his possession, by the aid of the Divine science, 
the three theological virtues of Faith, Hope and Love, can, by 
the special permission of God, look upon the symbols even of 
those truths which are not possible for him to attain by direct 
vision as yet. When Dante turns to ask Beatrice for a full 
understanding of the splendid and profound things that are 
unfolded to his sight, he sees her no more ; Bernard the Con- 
templator has taken her place, and by his intercession Dante 
looks upon the very face of God. 

If this interpretation of the general plan of the * Paradiso,' 
which is essentially that of Lubin, is correct, the explanation of 
the passage I am considering is not far to seek, especially taken 
in connection with an utterance of St. Bernard in the very 
treatise Dante cites as an example of how heavenly themes 
should be handled. That we feel a greater joy at saying a thing, 
says Bernard, is a proof in favor of its truth. That when the 
discursive reason is about to resign its office to direct vision, it 
should devoutly recall the truths it has discovered, is a natural 



;^8 EDIVAJRD L, UALTER. 

termination of its activity, not because of the joy it feels at con- 
fessing its faith, though that may be great, but because that 
very joy is another and crowning proof to the humble and 
faithful soul of the truth of what it confesses. For this purpose 
three books are scarcely too much, the more as there must also 
be painted the joy of the saints over the purification of the 
intellect [Intellecius is the word used by St. Bernard himself] 
of one more of those for whose salvation thev had worked and 
prayed while in this mortal life. As the whole mount of Purga- 
tory trembles when any soul, feeling itself pure, has a volition 
to rise upward, so the blessed spirits in the eighth heaven shout 
for joy, when the intellect of any man is wholly purified, and 
they express their joy. 

The appropriateness of the examiners, especially of Peter 
and John, is so obviously the reason of their choice, that it 
sufficiently explains why the examination is laid in the sphere 
of the fixed stars which is imagined as the abode of the Saints 
and the Apostles of the Old and the New Testament, rather 
than in the Primum Mobile, in which is placed the Angelic 
Hierarchy, and which just precedes the final surrender of faith 
to knowledge. What is touched on in the intervening period, 
moreover, concerns matters which, if not contrary to reason, 
are at least not attainable by reason alone. Exepting so far as 
enlightenment comes from Divine Grace, they are matters only 
of opinion, which is, according to St. Bernard, the least satis- 
factory result in the investigation of truth. 

Let me resume, as briefly as I can, my explanation of these 
three books. The chief allegory of the * Paradiso * I take to 
be the progress of the soul from active searching after truth to 
its secure possession by direct vision. Beatrice is the poet's 
guide as long as he is searching after truth, Bernard his inter- 
cessor to secure its direct vision. This direct vision of truth 
cannot be given to him who has not strengthened himself in the 
pursuit of those truths which can be found by the higher reason, 
illuminated by grace. This necessary degree of strength has 
been nearly reached by Dante, when he reviews the grounds 
of his faith, and the joy he feels himself, as well as the joy man- 
ifested by the saints and apostles, is a crowning proof of the 
eternal verities he has confessed. In this way the scene in the 
eighth heaven seems to me to enter naturally into the scheme 
of the poem, and fonns an important enough part of it to justify 
so many lines spent upon it. 



DANTE'S PARADISO, 



39 



I can see only two serious objections to such an explanation. 
It may be said that it is hard to believe that Dante requires 
a knowledge of theology as a necessary prerequisite to the joys 
of Heaven. But in the first place, the Vita Activa which is 
thus contrasted with the Vita CcnUmplativa and must precede 
it, is not merely a Hfe which busies itself with studying the dis- 
cussions of the doctors ; the things of God are to be sure in 
this view the noblest occupation of man, and as such Dante 
represents himself as busied with them chiefly. But it embraces 
also, as Augustine says in the treatise that Dante cites, all 
other acts of a virtuous life, such as are within the reach of all. 
All virtue prepares for the vision of God, but as there are 
different degrees of virtue in Dante's Paradise, symbolized 
by the different spheres, so the virtue which prepares the soul 
for It may, or rather must, be of different degree, if not of 
different kind. The soul will have to answer in such an ex- 
amination only within the measure of its knowledge, and it is 
perhaps not loo fanciful to think that the adaptation of the ex- 
amination to the capacity of the examined is signified by Dante 
himself, when his g^ide beseeches Peter to examine on points 
light and grave, come ti piace^ as seemeth good to thee. But 
hovever this may be, a life which is virtuous by God's grace 
and in His love, is a sufficient preparation even in theological 
things for some place at least in the spheres of Heaven in strict 
accord with the teaching of Dante's masters. 

The other objection may come from those who do not accept 
that interpretation of the '* Paradise' which I have given. I am 
not blind to what can be said against it, but that it explains 
satisfactorily these three books, is itself something in its favor. 
But aside from this. I certainly should not deny that other 
interpretations of the allegory may be in perfect harmony with 
the poet's thought; he expressly admits, as I have shown, 
different allegorical meanings in the same passage of the Bible. 
I only claim that the chief aim is distinctly religious, that politi- 
cal teaching and also moral teaching, so far as it can be distin- 
guished from religious, are distinctly subordinated to religious 
teaching, and I confess I find it hard to understand the frame of 
mind of those who regard it differently. Now, as most of the 
great problems of the world are at bottom religious, and as no 
solution of these problems has ever been offered which does 
not contain also the solution of much that has no direct refer- 
ence to religion, it is not strange that much can be jusdy found 



40 EDWARD L, WALTER. 

there that suggests other interpretations than the religious one. 
But it remains true that the poem so obviously religious, written 
by a poet so surely of deep religious conviction, cannot be 
supposed to use religion as a mere covering for other things. 
A religious interpretation of these three books must then be 
sought for, and I certainly have been able to find no other 
which accords so well with the letter and spirit of the Sacred 
Poem, to which both Heaven and Earth have set their hand. 



III. — Notes on Elizabethan Prose, 
By JAMES M. GARNETT, M. A.. LL. D.. 

PROFESSOR OP THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE IN THE 

UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA. 

The progress of English prose is a subject of great interest, 
and one that has not as yet been thoroughly treated from the 
historical point of view. Here, as elsewhere in literary, as well as 
scientific subjects, the inductive method must be employed, and 
by selection and comparison the advance made from century to 
century may be indicated. Any treatment of the subject mak- 
ing the smallest pretension to fullness should begin at least as 
early as the second half of the fourteenth century, with the 
prose of Wyclif and his contemporaries, after the native and 
foreign elements of the language had become so blended into 
one that what was once foreign was no longer felt to be so. The 
progress should be traced through the fifteenth century, marked 
by the names of Mandeville'— whose so-called * Travels * has 
at last found its true historical position, — Pecock, Malory and 
Caxton, to the first half of the sixteenth century, when prose- 
writers become more numerous, and the language becomes 
more flexible and better suited to the purposes of prose, as seen 
in the writings of Sir Thomas More and his controversial 
opponent, William Tyndale,* Sir Thomas Elyot, whose 
" Boke called the Governour " is a real land-mark of English 
prose. Bishop Hugh Latimer, the most forcible and witty 
preacher of his time, and Roger Ascham, who connects the 
reigns of Henry VIII and Elizabeth, and who deliberately uses 
English for his works, although it would have been "more 
easier " for him to write in Latin. 

The present paper makes no such pretensions as those indi- 
cated above. Its object is merely to put together certain notes 
on readings in some of the prose- writings of the Elizabethan age, 
including in this term its inseparable companion, the reign of 
the " royal pedant,'* and prolonging it into that of his unfortunate 
son, for even Milton is "the last of the Elizabethans." 

In studying the prose of the reign of Elizabeth, it is natural 
to begin with that work whose publication marked an era in 
the history of English prose almost as notable as that marked 
in poetry by its exact contemporary, Spenser's * Shepherd's 
Calendaj"/ that is, the * Euphues ' of John Lyly (1579-80). 



42 JAMES M, GARNETT, 

It is now twenty years since Professor Arber made this work 
accessible to the general public in his valuable series of ' English 
Reprints.' Professor Henry Morley had given us an inter- 
esting study of " Euphuism " in the Quarterly Review for 
April, 1861. Dr. Weymouth followed with his study of 
" Euphuism '* in the Transactions of the Philological Society of 
London for 1870-72, but the part containing his paper is unfor- 
tunately out of print and I have been unable to procure access 
to it Dr. Landmann, of Giessen, published his "Shakespere 
and Euphuism" in the New Skaksper^s Society s Trans- 
actions for 1880-82, and he has more recendy summed up the 
chief characteristics of Euphuism in the Introduction to his 
selections from ''Euphues and the Arcadia" published in 
Englische Sprach- und Literaturdenkmale ; and Mr. Saints- 
bury has well, though briefly, criticized Euphuism in the second 
chapter of his * History of Elizabethan Literature.' With the 
thin thread of thought contained in the plot, or story, of 
* Euphues ' I have nothing to do. The time of writing good 
plots for fiction was " not yet." It is altogether with the lan- 
guage, the style, the manner of expression, that I am concerned. 
Moreover, I shall not stop upon the misconceptions that have 
prevailed concerning Euphuism, the attempted caricature by 
Shakspere or Sir Walter Scott. It is not difficult to 
seize upon some peculiar mannerism of a writer, extravagandy 
exaggerate it, and call that his style; but we should neither 
exaggerate nor " extenuate, nor set down aught in malice." Dr. 
Landmann finds in 'Euphues' a direct imitation of the style 
of the Spanish writer Gxjevara, and not only of the style, but 
of the contents of Guevara's ' Life of Marcus Aurelius,' after 
Plutarch, which was translated into English by Sir Thomas 
North, the translator of ' Plutarch's Lives * also. Twenty 
years ago Professor Dowden informed Professor Arber 
that ' Euphues and his Ephoebus,' the excellent treatise " Of the 
education of youth," was taken from Plutarch, and this has 
been confirmed by Landmann, from North's translation, after 
Guevara, of the * Dial of Princes,' the second book of which 
" is an imitation of Plutarch's book, ' De educadone puer- 
orum.' " 

What, then, are the elements of this style that Guevara 
claimed as his own, that Lyly popularized in English, and that 
held sway for some time as the fashionable style in English 
prose? Landmann regards Lyly's metaphors as in most 



NOTES ON ELIZABETHAN PROSE. 



43 



instances not exaggerated or affected, his words as genuine 
English, and his ideas as sound and reasonable. " It is," says 
he, "the grammatical structure, the syntax, that strikes us at 
once as excessively artificial. We here have the most elaborate 
antithesis, not only of well-balanced sentences, but also of 
words, often even of syllables. Lvly is averse to plain single 
sentences ; he prefers twin phrases, parallel clauses, either in 
juxtaposition or in antithesis." Other elements peculiar to 
Lyly's style are '' alliteration, consonance, rhyme, playing upon 
words, and the use of syllables sounding alike," and a peculiar 
characteristic of the alliteration is that it is often transverse, as 
Dr. Weymouth termed it, or alternate, as I think it might be 
termed; for example, "Although hitherto I have shrined thee 
in my heart for a trusty friend, I will shunne thee heerafter as a 
trotUes foe'* (Landmann, p. xvi.). Again, says Landmann, 
Lyly makes use of " a long series of illustrations, comparisons, 
examples, and short similes, taken from ancient history and 
mythology, from daily life, and from Pliny's Natural History, 
translating Pliny literally." 

These, then, are the chief elements that critics find as charac- 
teristic of Lyly*s style. But it seems to me that they select 
certain examples from Lyly's work in which these character- 
istics are prominent, and overlook the fact that, notwithstanding 
such attributes, a great part of it is written in a clear, easy, natu- 
ral and pure style, which, barring an occasional quaint word, or 
form, would scarcely be thought three hundred years old. Let 
us take a paragraph from his commendation of " Euphues and 
his England" "to the Ladies and Gentlewoemen of England," 
for Lyly wrote for the ladies, and expected them to read and en- 
joy his work : — " It resteth. Ladies, that you take paines to read 
it, but at such times as you spend playing with your little 
Dogges, and yet will I not pinch you of that pastime, for I am con- 
tent that your Dogges lye in your laps, so Euphues may be in 
your hands, that when you shall be wearie in reading of the 
one, you may be ready to sport with the other : or handle him 
as you do your lunckets, that, when you can eate no more, you 
tye some in your napkin for children, for if you be filled with 
the first part, put the second in your pocket for your wa3rting 
Maydes. Euphues had rather lye shut in a Ladyes casket then 
openinaSchollersstudie." (Arber, p. 220). Time has, however, 
relegated Lyly's book to the scholar's study, for it cannot com- 
pete with the latest novel. We find in this paragraph a certain 



44 JAMES M. GARNETT. 

balance of sentence and a tendency to alliteration, but neither 
to an objectionable extent, nor, if carried no further, in any way 
remarkable. 

Yet Lyly did not pride himself upon the style, but rather 
upon the matter, of his book. In the Dedication of the second 
edition (1581) to Lord delaWarre, he says: — "Though 
the stile nothing delight the daintie eare of the curious 
sifter, yet will the matter recreate the minde of the curteous 
Reader ; the varietie of the one will abate the harshnesse of the 
other. Things of greatest profit are set forth with least price ; 
where the wine is neat (i. e. pure) there needeth no Iviebush ; 
the right Corall needeth no coloring ; where the matter itselfe 
bringeth credit, the man with his glose (i. e. gloss or interpreta- 
tion ; also, flattery) winneth small commendation (p. 203)." Here 
balance and alliteration are more evident, and a tendency to il. 
lustration by means of proverbs. This tendency of Lyly's is, I 
think, subjected to ridicule by Shakspere in * Romeo and Juliet,' 
for we find in this very dedication : ** The shomaker must not go 
above his latchet, nor the Hedger meddle with anything but his 
bil (i. e., axe) It is unseemly for the Painter to feather a shafte 
or the Fletcher to handle the pencill: "and Shakspere puts 
into the mouth of Capulet*s servant what would serye for a 
good burlesque upon this passage : " It is written that the shoe- 
maker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, 
the fisher with his pencil and the painter with his nets.'* (i. 2. 
40). Other passages of * Romeo and Juliet' remind us of 
* Euphues,* so that not only in * Love's Labor's Lost ' do we find 
illustrations of Shaksperian Euphuism. Lyly's disposition 
to " something afiect the letter " is carried to an extreme in 
such sentences as the following : ** Thus farre I am bold, 
gentlemen, to counsel those that be coy that they weave not the 
net of their own woe, nor spinne the threede of their own thral- 
dome, by their own overthwartnes (i. e. wrongheadedness) (p. 
55.)" But after making all allowances for Lyly's fondness fof 
alliteration and antithesis, let us give him credit for certain qual- 
ities of style that are manifest in his work, that is, clearness, 
simplicity, force, even sometimes rising to beauty of expression, 
and much less " harshness " than is found in his predecessors. 
This plainness and clearness of speech is seen especially in the 
second part of his work and in the last section, " Euphues Glasse 
for Europe," where he holds up England to the admiration of 
the ladies of Italy, — doubtless with pardonable exaggeration of 



NOTES ON ELIZABETHAN PROSE, 



45 



the good qualities of the English ladies, — and particularly where 
he lavishes praise upon Queen Elizabeth. One or two examples 
must suffice. After contrasting the ladies of England and of 
Italy, much to the disadvantage of the latter, Lvlv asks : " Is it 
not then a shame, Ladyes, that that litde island shoulde be a 
myrrour to you, to Europe, to the whole world ? .... 
Learn Ladies, though late yet at length, that the chiefest 
tide of honour in earth is to give all honour to him that is in 
heaven, that the greatest braverie (i. e. finery) in this worlde 
18 to be burning lampes in the worlde to come, that the clearest 
beaude in this life, is to be amiable to him that shall give life 
etemalL Looke in the Glasse of England, too bright I fear me 
for your eyes ; what is there in your sex that they have not and 
what that you should not have ? (p. 446.)" And in praise of 
the Queen he instances the following : " I myselfe being in 
England when hir majestie was for hir recreation in hir 
Barge upon ye Thames, hard of a Gun that was shotte off, 
though of the partie unwittingly, yet to hir noble person 
dangerously, which fact she most graciously pardoned, 
accepting a just excuse before a great amends, taking 
more griefe for hir poore Bargeman, that was a littie hurt, 
then care for hir selfe that stoode in greatest hasarde. O rare 
example of pittie, O singuler spectacle of pietie ! " (p. 453). 
And thus he continues : " Infinite were the ensamples that 
might be alledged, and almost incredible, whereby shee hath 
shewed hir selfe a Lambe in meeknesse when she had cause 
to be a Lion in might, proved a Dove in favour, when she was 
provoked to be an Eagle in fiercenesse, requiting injuries with 
benefits, revenging grudges with gifts, in highest majestie bear- 
ing the lowest minde, forgiving all that sued for mercie and for- 
getting all that deserved lustice." (p. 454.) Whatever we 
may think of the historical correctness of the portraiture, we 
must acknowledge that it is a simple and elegant tribute to the 
character of the Queen as a courtier saw it. 

If this paper were confined to a consideration of Lylv's 
* Euphues,* many other examples might be given of his clear- 
ness, simplicity, and even beauty of style, his wealth of 
vocabulary of pure English, his " Englishness," if I may bor- 
row a term applied by " Matthew Browne " to Chaucer. Lyly 
prefers short sentences to long ones, and with him we seldom 
find the subject left loose, poised in mid-air as it were, and 
searching in vain for its predicate ; or per contra a predicate at 



46 JAMES M. . GARNE TT. 

a loss for its immediate subject His sentences will parse, no 
undesirable quality in some of the writings of this age, and they 
hang well together. We find occasional archaisms, such as the 
double comparative and superlative, plural subject with a singu- 
lar verb, adverbial use of nothing, relative use of as after other 
demonstratives than such, and use of as with when, etc., use of 
whether as a pronoun, impersonal use o( like, and others, — all of 
which may be paralleled from Shakspere and belonged to the 
language of the time. We find even such a modem blunder as 
the use of auxiliaries with the wrong verbal complement ; as, 
" England hath all those yat can and have turestled with al 
others " (p. 44i)» but one can scarcely pick up a newspaper 
that has not the same blunder now. . We meet, too, with words 
now obsolete or used in an obsolete sense; as, siih, tickle, 
domesHcall, maciilate,/eare=Aighten, escapes=im\st2ikes, snorts 
snore, — to mention but a few. Taking into consideration the 
time when Lyly wrote, I do not think that any careful reader 
will deny to him the praise awarded by his contemporary John 
Eliot, in a French sonnet prefixed to Greene's ' Perimedes, 
The Blacke Smith ' (1588), (quoted in full in Arber's Intro- 
duction) : 

*' Greene et Lylli tous deux rafiineurs de rAnglois," 
even if one might not concur with his Latin eulogist, 

"Tullius Anglonim nunc vivens Lillius." 
I pass now to Lyly^s more distinguished contemporary, Sir 
Philip Sidney, who has left us the 'Arcadia' and the litde 
pamphlet, "An Apologie for Poetrie," as examples of his prose 
style. Landmann has printed the first chapter of the first 
book of the 'Arcadia' along with his selections from * Euphues,' 
and has summed up the chief elements of Sidney's style. He 
thinks that " although Sidney may have been a Euphuist at 
court, he avoided it entirely in his 'Arcadia,' written between 
1580-86," and that the publication of the 'Arcadia,* in 1590 
detracted much from the reputation of ' Euphues.' He finds 
the chief elements of style in the 'Arcadia ' to consist in " end- 
less tedious sentences, one sometimes filling a page, in the fond* 
ness for details, and in the description of the beauties of rural 
scenery ;" also in " comparisons and conceits couched in exces- 
sively metaphorical language, quaint circumlocutions for simple 
expressions and bold personifications of inanimate objects." 
" Beside^," says he, " Sidney is fond of playing upon words 
and b not averse to simple alliteration, but he avoids Lyly's 



NO TES ON ELIZABETHAN PROSE. 47 

artificial combination of parisonic antithesis with transverse 
alliteration, as well as his absurd similes taken from Pliny ;" so 
he concludes that Sidney's " style and diction are certainly 
affected, but his language has, nevertheless, its charms, and 
has decidedly won the ascendency over Lvly's more 
artificial extravagance." — The source of the 'Arcadia* is 
afiirmed to be the 'Diana' of Montemavor, not 
the 'Arcadia' of Sannazaro, except as to tide. This is 
proved, says Landmann, at a glance. " The style is the same 
in both, even the same ideas occur." " Sidney also translated 
some of the songs of the ' Diana ' ; " and some other points of 
resemblance are noted. On the general question of the influ- 
ence of Italian prose upon English writers, Landmann thinks 
that it " was neither deeply felt, nor was it injurious." It would 
be interesting for some Spanish scholar to trace more thoroughly 
and direcdy the indebtedness of English prose of the reign of 
Elizabeth to the Spanish writers. 

The 'Apologie for Poetrie,' — which Professor Arber has 
made generally accessible, (although I was surprised to find, by 
comparison of Arber's ' Reprint ' with an edition of 1724, that 
it has some omissions), — is usually considered a better specimen 
of Sidney's prose style than the 'Arcadia.' It is, perhaps, freer 
firom the faults of the latter work, which have been well charac- 
terized by Mr. Saintsbury. He says : " If Sidney's vocabu- 
lary is not Ladnised or Italianised or Lylyfied, he was one of 
the greatest of sinners in the special ElizabethiEm sin of con- 
voluting and entangling his phrases ; . . . so as to say the simplest 
thing in the least simple manner. . . . Yet again, he is one of 
the arch offenders in the matter of spoiling the syntax of the 

sentence and the paragraph Sidney was one of the first 

writers of great popularity and influence to introduce what may 
be called the sentence-and-paragraph heap, in which clause 
is linked on to clause till not merely the grammatical, but the 
philosophical integer is hopelessly lost sight of in a tangle of 
jointings, and appendices.*' ... " The faults of 'Euphues,' " he 
thinks, " were faults which were certain to work their own 
cure: those of the 'Arcadia* were so engaging in themselves, 
and linked with so many merits and beauties, that they were 
sure to set a dangerous example." (* History of Elizabethan 
literature,' pp. 42, 43.) I must concur with Mr. Saintsbury 
in these criticisms, nor do I think that many " purple patches " 
make amends for a deficiency in syntactical clearness. Perhaps 



48 JAMES M, GARNETT, 

one reason why Dr. Landmann seems to give the preference 
to the style of Sidney over that of Lyly is that it is more sim- 
ilar to that of the native German unpurified by contact with 
French and English writers. (Vide De Quincey's Hist, and 
CriL Essays, in Vol. ii.) Criticism of Kant, Essay on " Style." 

But let us test the matter by a few specimens of Sidney's 
style, that is, if it is ever right to judge an author by short 
examples, which, however well they may serve for illustration 
of particular points, can never give a correct idea of the writer*s 
general style. Let us take the opening sentence of the * Arcadia,' 
as given in Landmann's selections : — 

" It was in the time that the earth begins to put on her new 
aparrel against the approch of her lover, and that the sun run- 
ning a most even course becums an indifferent arbiter betweene 
the night and the day ; when the hopelesse shepheard Strephon 
was come to the sandes, which lie against the Island of Cithera ; 
where viewing the place with a heavy kinde of delight, and 
sometimes casting his eyes to the Ileward, he called his friendly 
rivall, the pastor Claim unto him, and setting first downe in his 
darkened countenance a doleful copie of what he would 
speake : O my Claius, said he, hether we are now come to 
pay the rent, for which we are so called unto by over-busie 
Remembrance, Remembrance, restlesse Remembrance, which 
claymes not onlye this dutie of us, but it will have us forget 
ourselves." 

It almost takes one's breath away to read a fourteen-line open- 
ing sentence, with relative clause strung on to relative clause. 
Here we find metaphorical conceits, and even the alternate 
alliteration for which Lyly is so condemned ; and, — to quote 
but a part of the next sentence, " Did Remembrance graunt us 
any holiday, eyther for pastime or devotion, nay either for 
necessary foodeor naturall rest? but that still it forced our 
thoughts to worke upon this place, where we last (alas that 
the word last should so long last) did gaze our eyes upon her 
ever-florishing beautie," etc., — ^where shall we find in Lyly a 
worse-sounding play upon words and alliteration combined? 
This play upon words was, however, a common characteristic of 
Elizabethan language, and Shakspere himself is a very griev- 
ous offender in this respect. What can be worse than Mercu- 
tio's chaffing of Romeo and Romeo's retorts ? 

But Sidney's style is faulty not only in its long sentences. The 
diief &ult I should find with it, is its lack of correct syntax ; 



NOTES ON ELIZABETHAN PROSE, 



49 



subjects appear to be forgotten before the corresponding predi- 
cates are introduced; predicates are frequently found with no sub- 
jects expressed, and they must be inferred from the context ; and 
sometimes the subject is so far removed from the predicate 
by inter\^ening clauses that it is difficult to make the connection, 
for example: " But the fishermen, when they came so neere him, 
that it was time to throwe out a rope, by which hold they might 
draw him, their simplicity bred such amasement, and their 
amasement such a superstition, that (assuredly thinking it was 
some God begotten betweene Neptune and Venus that had 
made all this terrible slaughter) as they went under sayle by 
him, held up their hands, and made their prayers." We finally 
discover that it was the fishermen who ** held up their hands 
and made their prayers," but only after the intervention of no 
less than six dependent sentences and a parenthetical clause ; 
and moreover, the principal subject has no predicate* and the 
principal predicate no subject expressed. This remarkable 
sentence continues for ten lines further, beginning with the 
Latinism, "Which when Musidorus sawe, though he were 
almost as much ravished with joy, as they with astonishment, he 
lept to the Mariner, and tooke the rope out of his hande and," 
etc. ; — but enough has been quoted for my purpose. It reminds 
one of the familiar expression of CiESAR, ^^ Quae quum ita sini^^ 
that school-boys are so fond of translating with exact literalness, 
order and all. However good for Latin, it will not answer for 
English. 

Let us glance for a moment at the *Apologie for Poetrie.' 
Sidney sums up the first part of his argument with a sentence 
nearly a page long, no less than eight successive dependent 
sentences beginning with the conjunction sith (i. e. since), but 
we will let that pass, as it is the conclusion of one section and 
opening of another. I have already stated that the style of the 
'Apologie ' is considered better than that of the 'Arcadia.' Its 
syntax is less involved ; it is clearer and simpler ; it is freer from 
conceits; and while naturally containing archaic words and 
phrases of the time, it is, looked at from a modern standpoint, 
more correct. We meet, however, with alliteration, as " a great 
many wandering wordes'* (Arber, p. 49); "by styrring the 
Spleene may stay the braine;" "confute others knowledge 
before they confirme theyr owne," — all within a few lines ; and 
we find some phrases that would offend the ears of our modem 
rhetoricians, " of al other learnings " (p. 48); " those kinde of 



50 JAMES M, GARNETT. 

objections" (p. 49) ; " without we will say " (p. 52) ; and twice 
in close connection the good old idiom " I had much rather," 
which some of our neo-grammarians are trying to rule out of 
the language, but which is found in all periods of good English, 
as Dr. FiTZEDWARD Hall has well shown (Amer. Jour, of 
Phil., ii, 281). But Sidney cannot always straighten out his 
syntax, even in a short sentence, as (p. 59); "Of the other 
side, who wold shew the honors, have been by the best sort of 
iudgements granted them, a whole Sea of examples woulde 
present themselves." This sentence is an example of the ex- 
treme elliptical style, for we find that not only is there an ellipsis 
of the antecedent those of the relative who, but also an 
ellipsis of the relative subject which referring to honors, and the 
reader is expected to supply them for himself We may be per- 
mitted to apply to Sidney's syntax his own expression concern- 
ing Gorboduc, of which Sidney had a high opinion, yet because 
it violated the unities, he thought that it was, in truth, " very 
defectious in the circumstances." Sidney's vocabulary, how- 
ever, deserves all the praise that has been bestowed upon it. It 
is pure English, and it is very rare that in either Lyly or Sid- 
ney we find those Latin formations, as the above defectious, 
which were the bane of the prose style of the seventeenth cen- 
tury, even that of Milton included, and for relief from which 
we are indebted to the good hard common sense of Dryden 
and his immediate successors. Sidney deserves credit, too, 
for having appreciated the excellencies of his own language. 
Speaking of the diction of Poetry, he passes to that of Oratory, 
but soon checks himself as follows (p. 69) : " But what ? Me 
thinkes I deserve to be pounded for straying from Poetrieto 
Oratorie : but both have such an affinity in this wordish consid- 
eration, that I thinke this digression will make my meaning 
receive the fuller understanding, which is not to take upon me 
to teach Poets howe they should doe, but onely finding myselfe 
sick among the rest, to shewe one or two spots of the common 
infection growne among the most part of Writers : that acknowl- 
edging our selves somewhat awry, we may bend to the right 
use both of matter and manner; whereto our language 
gyveth us great occasion, beeing indeed capable of any excel- 
lent exercising of it. I know, some will say it is a mingled 
language. And why not so much the better, taking the best of 
both the other ? Another will say, it wanteth Grammer. Nay 
truly, it hath that prayse that it wanteth not Grammer: for 



NOTES ON ELIZABETHAN PROSE. 



51 



Grammer it might have, but it needes it not; beeing so easie of 
it selfe, and so voyd of those cumbersome differences of Cases, 
Genders, Moodes, and Tenses, which I thinke was a peece of 
the Tower of Babilons curse, that a man should be put to 
schoole to learne his mother-tongue. But for the uttering 
sweedy and properly the conceits of the minde, which is the 
end of speech, that hath it equally with any other tongue in the 
world: and is particulerly happy in compositions of two or 
three words together, neere the Gre?ke, far beyond the Latine : 
which is one of the greatest beauties can be in a language.** 
The trouble with Sidney was that he did not realize that gram- 
mar consisted in something more than " cumbersome differences 
of cases, genders, moodes and tenses,'* and that the lack of 
these made all the more necessary a careful attention to verbal 
order and correct syntactical construction. 

But it is now time to consider that writer who made the 
greatest advance of all writers of the reign of Elizabeth towards 
the formation of a really good English prose style, " the judi- 
cious Hooker." Hooker has been often praised for first treat- 
ing an abstruse philosophical subject in English and not in Latin, 
and he deserves all the credit that can be awarded him; for he 
preceded Bacon and differed from him, too, in that Bacon 
thought it necessary to translate even his English works into 
Latin that his fame might be perpetuated to posterity. Had 
Hooker written in Latin, his great work would have been 
relegated to the limbo of forgotten books, and English litera- 
ture would have been deprived of its first modern prose writer 
that is still universally read and admired. Dean Church, in 
the Introduction to his edition of the first book of Hooker's 
' Ecclesiastical Polity,' (C. P. Series), the book which is of gen- 
eral interest and which was published with three others in 1594, 
says of Hooker's writings that "they mark an epoch at once in 
the history of English thought and in the progress of the English 
language ;*' that " Hooker, like Shakespeare and Bacon, may 
be said to. have opened a new vein in the use of the English 
language " ; furthermore, that " Hooker is really the beginner 
of what deserves to be called English literature, in its theologi- 
cal and philosophical province." These statements are not 
exaggerated. Let anyone read the literature of the time, even 
the best of its prose, that of Lyly and Sidney, and then take 
up the ' Ecclessiastical Polity.' Although these writers mark 
an advance in English prose, Hooker at one leap went far 



52 JAMES M, GAR NEXT. 

beyond them. It is a marvel where he got his style from. He 
had no model ; he evolved from his own consciousness the 
phraseology and expression that so well suited his weighty 
thoughts. That he should have been to some extent under the 
influence of the Latin and Greek writers who formed the sub- 
jects of his daily studies was in no way remarkable. What is 
remarkable is that he should have so succeeded in transferring 
the gist of his studies into such pure and idiomatic English. 
Hooker's style has, I think, been depreciated by Professor 
MiNTO. Dean Church's views seem to me more critical. He 
says of Hooker's work : " It first revealed to the world what 
English prose might be : its power of grappling with difficult 
conceptions and subtle reasonings, of bringing imformation and 
passion to animate and illuminate severe thought, of suiting 
itself to the immense variety of lights and moods and feelings 
which really surround and accompany the work of the mind ; 
its power of attracting and charming like poetry, its capacity 
for a most delicate or most lofty music. The men who first 
read the early books of Hooker must have felt that their mother- 
tongue had suddenly appeared in a form which might bear 
comparison with the great classical models for force or beauty." 
Dean Church refers to the statement of Swift that Hooker 
" had written English so naturally and simply that his works 
survived the changes of fashion, and could be read without 
offence in the days of Addison and Pope." 

The qualities of Hooker's style that will first- strike the 
reader are, I think, its smoothness of expression and compact- 
ness of structure. Hooker sometimes used long sentences, 
but they are well constructed. The long sentences of Hooker 
and those of Sidney are as far apart as the antipodes. Had 
Hooker written like Sidney, it would have been a labor to 
disinter his thought. On the contrary, Hooker is always clear in 
style, even when the thought itself is abstruse. With him the 
thought is the main element, not, as with Lyly, the manner of ex- 
pression, and the style fits the thought. The expression is always 
forcible and sometimes elegant. His vocabulary is pure and co- 
pious; there are very few obsolete words and there are 
comparatively few Latinisms. That the style has an archaic cast, 
and that there is occasional quaintness in expression, is to be 
expected. To look for anything else is to expect an Elizabethan 
to write like a Victorian, and to overlook three hundred years 
of progress in English prose. Is then Hooker's style perfect ? 



NOTES ON ELIZABETHAN PROSE, 



53 



Has it no faults? Viewed from a modem standpoint, it has 
some peculiarities to which exception might be taken. That one 
which I think will first attract attention is Hooker's fondness 
for inversion, evidently derived from his familiarity with Latin 
writings. While inversion is often forcible, and therefore permis- 
sible on occasion, as it gives the emphatic position to the 
emphatic word, it may be easily carried too far. Also, there are 
occasional ellipses, especially of the substantive verb and of the 
relative pronoun, which the reader is left to supply, but that is 
easily done. Hooker frequently uses the personal pronoun as 
antecedent to the relative, where we should use the demonstra- 
tive ; as, them who, them whom, them which, referring to persons, 
and even includes the antecedent in the possessive ; as, " ifieir 
brutishness which imagine," but these expressions are familiar 
to every reader of Shakspere. Again, we find two subjects 
with a singular verb, ^^ force and injury *was offered ;" except 
used as a conjunction, ^^ except they gave their common con- 
sent ;" of in the sense of from, " who of fathers were made 
rulers ;" even such a rhetorical bugbear as " those kind of posi- 
tive laws" (already noticed in Sidney and found in Shak- 
spere,); not this for this is not ; such expressions as laws politic, 
laws human, any other the like, every of these three kinds, by 
any their several laws, etc., and such words as commonweal^ 
regiment, domestical, moe, sith, sithence, overpotent, instancy, 
etc. But it is not worth while to enumerate words and expres- 
sions belonging to the Elizabethan age, of which a long list 
might be ipade even from the First Book, for they simply serve 
to give to the style a quaintness and an archaic flavor that are 
very attractive. 

Let us take a few specimens of the way in which Hooker 
expresses his thoughts, and especially of his management of 
short and long sentences ; we may select almost at random and 
must be brief; forexample (Church, Bk. I, p. 51): "All men desire 
to lead in this world a happy life. That life is led most hap- 
pily wherein all virtue is exercised without impediment or let. 
The Apostle, in exhorting men to contentment although they 
have in this world no more than very bare food and raiment, 
giveth us thereby to understand that those are even the lowest 
of things necessary ; that if we should be stripped of all those 
things without which we might possibly be, yet these must be 
left ; that destitution in these is such an impediment as, till it be 
removed, suffereth not the mind of man to admit any other care. 



54 JAMES M. GARNETT, 

For this cause, first God assigned Adam maintenance of life, 
and then appointed him a law to obser\^e. For this cause, after 
men began to grow to a number, the first thing we read they 
gave themselves unto was the tilling of the earth and the feed- 
ing of cattle. Having by this mean whereon to live, the prin- 
cipal actions of their life afterward are noted by the exercise of 
their religion. True it is that the Kingdom of God must be 
the first thing in our purposes and desires. But inasmuch as 
righteous life presupposeth life; inasmuch as to live virtu- 
ously it is impossible except we live ; therefore the first impedi- 
ment, which naturally we endeavor to remove, is penury and 
want of things without which we cannot live." One is inclined 
to add ** Q. E. D." to this clear and simple logical exposition. 

Let us now take a long sentence of somewhat higher style, 
his eulogy of faith, hope and charity as revealed in the law 
of God (p. 78) : — " Concerning faith, the principal object whereof 
is that eternal verity which hath discovered the treasures of 
hidden wisdom in Christ ; concerning hope, the highest object 
whereof is that everlasting goodness which in Christ doth 
quicken the dead ; concerning charity, the final object whereof 
is that incomprehensible beauty which shineth in the counte- 
nance of Christ, the Son of the living God : concerning these 
virtues, the first of which, beginning here with a weak appre- 
hension of things not seen, endeth with the intuitive vision of 
God in the world to come ; the second, beginning here with a 
trembling expectation of things far removed and as yet but only 
heard of, endeth with real and actual fruition of that which no 
tongue can express ; the third, beginning here with a weak 
inclination of heart towards him unto whom we are not able to 
approach, endeth with endless union, the mystery whereof is high- 
er than the reach of the thoughts of men ; concerning that faith, 
hope and charity, without which there can be no salvation, — 
was there ever any mention made saving only in that law which 
God himself hath from heaven revealed ? There is not in the 
world a syllable muttered with certain truth concerning any of 
these three more than hath been siipernaturally received from 
the mouth of the eternal God." 

What modern writer might not envy the grand tone of this 
simple climax, the elegant expression of thoughts as fresh now 
as when first uttered, in language as easily intelligible as if three 
hundred years did not separate it from to-day ! It is hard to 
realize that this book was probably written in the year of SiD- 



NOTES ON ELIZABETHAN PROSE, 



55 



key's death, and but five or six years after the * Euphues ' and 
the 'Arcadia.' It would seem as if a century should have inter- 
vened to secure such progress in English prose. 

I must hurry on to notice briefly Hooker's great contempo- 
rary, who has also left his mark upon English prose. In 1597, 
three years after the publication of the * Ecclesiastical Polity/ 
appeared the first ten ' Essays* of Francis Bacon, enlarged to 
forty in the edition of 161 2, and to fifty-eight in that of 1625, 
the year before Bacon's death. From Professor Arber's 
parallel-text edition it can be easily seen how each essay grew 
under Bacon's revision and enlargement. It is usual to take 
these essays as specimens of Bacon's English style, comment 
on them, and advise students to read them. Now, while Bacon's 
Essays are very valuable for the condensed thought that they 
contain, it does not seem to me that they can be praised for 
their style. The nature of the work forbids it. The style is 
highly aphoristic, and consists in putting into as small compass 
as possible as much thought as possible, and there is no room 
for graces of styfe. By comparing, however, an early essay 
with its later form, it may be seen how Bacon's style improved. 
The expression is fuller and freer, and less aphoristic. Compare 
even the brief additions made in the later issues to the essay 
on " Studies," which appears in four texts, or better the final 
form of the essay on " Religion," first issued in 161 2, the tide 
of which was altered to " Of Unity in Religion " after revision 
in 1625. 

I think a better idea of Bacon's English style may be gotten 
from his 'History of Henry VII,* written most probably in 
1 62 1-2, soon after he went into retirement, and pronounced by 
the aged Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, the friend of Sid- 
ney, to be " incomparable." In the ' History of Henry VII ' — 
of which a good edition has been edited by the Rev. Mr. 
LuMBY (Pitt Press Series), — Bacon treated a subject which had 
long occupied his mind. He was interested in it, and he wrote 
when his powers of mind were most vigorous, as he was not more 
than sixty years of age. He had here a fine field for the display of 
the excellencies of his style. The progress of historical compo- 
sition may be seen by comparing Bacon's work with the older 
chronicles, fi'om two of which (Hall and Grafton) extracts 
are given by Lumby, who says (p. viii) : " The perusal of a 
few lines will suffice to show what a great stride had been made 
in English prose composition during the reign of Elizabeth, and 



56 JAMES M, GARNETT. 

to what a degree of perfection it had been brought by the 
powers of such writers as Bacon and Hooker.'* The superior 
ease and finish, the naturalness of Bacon's style, strike us at 
once in the comparison. 

Raleigh had preceded Bacon in the art of description 
and narration. His brief report of 'The Last Fight of 
the Revenge' (ed. Arber) had been written in 1591, and 
his * History of the World ' was composed during his long 
imprisonment (1603-18). But Raleigh's style was not equal 
to Bacon's, notwithstanding some very beautiful descriptive 
passages. He frequendy uses long sentences, strung together 
without discrimination and especially faulty in the treatment of 
that bane of the Elizabethan writers, the relative pronoun. 
Raleigh's style leaves the impression of crowding together 
into one sentence too many topics. Thoughts flow in upon each 
other, and clause is added to clause somewhat after the Sidneian 
manner. But in any essay on Elizabethan prose making pre- 
tension to more than a mere sketch, Raleigh would deserv^e 
more space than can be spared for him here. 

Bacon's narrative style may be illustrated by a few quotations. 
His logical mind knew how to arrange his thoughts systemati- 
cally and to discriminate proportionately, and the style conforms 
to the thought. This may be seen at almost the very opening 
of his work. Discussing the King's tide to the throne, he says 
(p. 7) : " But King Henry, in the very entrance of his reign, 
and the instant of time when the kingdom was cast into his 
arms, met with a point of great difficulty, and knotty to solve, 
able to trouble and confound the wisest kingf in the newness of 
his estate ; and so much the more, because it could not endure 
a deliberation, but must be at once deliberated and determined. 
There were fallen to his lot and concurrent in his person three 
several titles to the imperial ctown. The first, the tide of the 
lady Elizabeth, whom, by precedent pact with the party that 
brought him in, he was to marry. The second, the ancient and 
long disputed title, both by plea and arms, of the house of 
Lancaster, to which he was inheritor in his own person. The 
third, the title of the sword or conquest, for that he came in by 
victory of battle, and that the king in possession was slain in the 
field." Here all is clear, simple and compact, the punctuation 
alone differing somewhat from modem usage, but the language 
easy and expressive. After considering each of these tides to 



NOTES ON ELIZABETHAN PROSE. 



57 



the crown, Bacon sums up the king's decision as follows, the 
sentence itself furnishing a good illustration of the way in which 
Bacon managed the long sentence, intercalating subordinate 
clauses between subject and predicate, and adding participial 
and relative causes after the main predicate, thus uniting the 
periodic and the loose structure (p. 9) : " But the king, out of 
the greatness of his own mind, presently cast the die ; and the 
inconveniences appearing unto him on all parts, and knowing 
there could not be any interreign or suspension of title, and 
preferring his affection to his own line and blood, and liking 
that tide best which made him independent ; and being in his 
nature and constitution of mind not very apprehensive or fore- 
casting of future events afar off, but an entertainer of fortune by 
the day ; resolved to rest upon the title of Lancaster as the 
main, and to use the other two, that of marriage, and that of 
battle, but as supporters, the one to appease secret discontents, 
and the other to beat down open murmur and dispute ; not for- 
getting that the same tide of Lancaster had formerly maintained 
a possession of three descents in the crown ; and might have 
proved a perpetuity, had it not ended in the weakness and 
inability of the last prince. Whereupon the king presently that 
very day, being the two and twentieth of August, assumed the 
style of king in his own name, without mention of the lady 
Elizabeth at all, or any relation thereunto. In which course he 
ever after persisted ; which did spin him a thread of many 
seditions and troubles." 

Here we feel inclined to split up and alter a little, especially 
to change the relatives, the grammatical dependence being 
thinly disguised by the old practice of putting a period before 
the relative, which modern usage will not permit. But whatever 
changes might be needed to give the sentence a more modern 
form, it cannot be denied that it is perfectly clear as it stands. 
It merely illustrates the Elizabethan tendency to put as many 
connected thoughts as possible into one sentence without regard 
to elegance of style. The sentence is cumbersome, without 
doubt, but easily intelligible. The insertion of the subject will 
sometimes mend Bacon's sentence -structure, and the omission 
of the subject, especially when a relative, is also sometimes 
necessary, as in the following (p. 10) : " For they thought gen- 
erally, that he was a Prince, as ordained and sent down from 
heaven, to unite and put to an end the long dissensions of the 
two houses ; which although they had had .... lucid intervals 



58 JAMES M. GARNETT, 

and happy pauses ; yet they did ever hang over the kingdom, 
ready to break forth into new perturbations and calamities." 

We see then that Bacon's grammar still leaves something to 
be desired to perfect the style. His vocabulary is, however, 
copious and idiomatic, and but little of it is even now obsolete. 
We meet with the archaisms, whereupaif, whereof^ ihereby^ 
therewith^ thereupon^ etc., characteristic of the time, far that, 
=because, so a^=provided that, long of as, " if this King did 
no greater matters, it was long of himself; for what he minded 
he compassed," and other such archaisms. Many Latinisms 
no longer current might be picked out, as indubiiate, ingenerate^ 
habilitate (adj.), impropriate^ impoisoner, etc. ; some Romance 
words, as disijiherison^ prest=\o2Si^ and spials; a good English 
term unlawed^ unfortunately lost, and many words used in 
senses different from their present meaning, as power=iorc^ of 
men (Shaksperian), /«/f«7/^=numerous, dijffidence=6\sXxust^ 
reduce=compe\y overcast=oyeTrsitef respective=respect{\il, sad= 
grave, pe7isive=weightyt concurrents=<:ontempoTaneSt consort 
=agreement, and others. 

The last section of Bacon's work, his description of the 
character of the King, is an excellent illustration of his style. 
The sentences are short and well constructed. The terms are 
chosen with skill to express each trait of character, habit and 
disposition of the man. The plainest and most idiomatic Eng- 
lish is used. One paragraph alone must suffice for illustration, 
as it preserves a familiar idiom and an incident that is of interest 
(p. 218) : " He was a Prince, sad, serious, and full of thoughts, 
and secret observations, and full of notes and memorials of his 
own hand, especially touching persons. As, whom to employ, 
whom to reward, whom to inquire of, whom to beware of, what 
were the dependencies, what were the factions, and the like ; 
keeping, as it were, a journal of his thoughts. There is to this 
day a merry tale ; that his monkey, set on as it was thought by 
one of his chamber, tore his principal note-book all to pieces^ 
when by chance it lay forth ; whereat the court, which liked not 
those pensive accounts, was almost tickled with sport." What- 
ever criticisms may be made of Bacon's style, it was a great 
advance upon that of any one of his predecessors except 
Hooker. 

I cannot close this paper without a cursory glance at a writer 
who, on account of his distinction in another field of literature, 
has not occupied the position that he deserves as a writer of 



NOTES ON ELIZABETHAN PROSE. 59 

English prose, " rare Ben Jonson." There is no better writer of 
Elizabethan prose than Jonson, and he marks a distinct 
advance upon Bacon. Mr. Saintsbury has well, though briefly, 
criticized his style (op. cit, supra, pp. 218-20), and Mr. Swin- 
burne has drawn attention to the value of his work in a recent 
article in the Fortnighily Review (July, 1888). There needs 
but a hasty perusal of his * Timber : or Discoveries made upon 
Men and Matter,' to justify the prominence given to him as a 
writer of prose by these learned critics. The modernness of his 
style at once impresses the reader. Saintsbury righdy says : — 
" There can be no greater contrast than exists between the prose 
style usual at that time .... and the straightforward, vigorous 
English of these Discoveries. They come, in character as in 
time, midway between Hooker and Dry den, and they incline 
rather to the more than to the less modern form." As to the 
value of Jonson's prose work, Mr. Swinburne remarks, 
with his accustomed hyperbole, " a single leaf of his Discov- 
eries is worth all his lyrics, tragedies, elegies, and epigrams 
together." Of course he omits his comedies. Ben Jonson 
was not only a writer, but he was also a critic of English prose 
style. We shall look in vain for a better reasoned and better 
expressed treatise on style than that section of the * Discoveries,' 
headed, with Jonson's fondness for Latin titles, " De stylo et 
Optimo scribendi genere " (ed. Gifford, ix, 212 flf. Partly quoted 
in Saintsbury's ' English Prose'). He refers occasionally to 
QuiNTiLiAN, and, doubtless, was indebted to him for some of 
his thoughts, but his mode of expression was all his own. 
Although the length of this paper admonishes me to be brief, 
I cannot refrain from one or two quotations. Jonson begins : 
" For a man to write well, there are required three necessaries : 
to read the best authors, observe the best speakers, and much 
exercise of his own style. In style, to consider what ought to 
be written, and after what manner; he must first think and 
excogitate his matter, then choose his words, and examine the 
weight of either. Then take care, in placing and ranking both 
matter and words, that the composition be comely, and to do this 
with diligence and often. No matter how slow the style be at 
first, so it be laboured and accurate ; seek the best and be not 
glad of the froward conceits, or first words, that offer them- 
selves to us ; but judge of what we invent, and order what we 
approve." But one knows not where to stop a quotation from 
this excellent tract. What a pity that some of our modern 



6o JAMES M. GARNETT. 

penny-a- liners have not read Jonson ! Considering its subject, 
this brief essay is equal to anything in Bacon, and, as to its 
style, it is far easier and simpler, much less quaint and archaic, 
— and Jonson died but eleven years after Bacon. 

Let us listen again to some of his pungent advice : — " But 
arts and precepts avail nothing, except nature be beneficial and 
aiding. And therefore these things are no more written to a 
dull disposition, than rules of husbandry to a soil. No precepts 
will profit a fool, no more than beauty will the blind, or music 
the deaf. As we should take care that our style in writing be 
neither dry nor empty ; we should look again it be not winding, 
or wanton with far-fetched descriptions ; either is a vice. But 
that is worse which proceeds out of want, thai^fiat which riots 
out of plenty. The remedy of fruitfulness is e»sy, but no labour 
will help the contrary ; I will like and praise some things in a 
young writer ; which yet, if he continue in, I cannot but jusdy 
hate him for the same.'* Notwithstanding the general ease of 
expression in this sentence, the peculiar Elizabethan use of the 
inevitable relative pronoun jars upon the ear attuned to gram- 
matical precision. 

Lastly, we may note how Jonson developed the precepts of 
Horace and Quintilian, and furnished a model for Dr. 
Campbell and his followers: "Custom is the most certain 
mistress of language, as the public stamp makes the current 
money. But we must not be too frequent with the mint, every 
day coining, nor fetch words from the extreme and utmost ages ; 
since the chief virtue of a style is perspicuity, and nothing so 
vicious in it as to need an interpreter. Words borrowed of 
antiquity do lend a kind of majesty to style and are not without 
their delight sometimes. For they have the authority of years, 
and out of their intermission do win themselves a kind of grace- 
like newness. But the eldest of the present, and newness of 
the past language, is the best. For what was the ancient lan- 
guage, which some men so dote upon, but the ancient custom ? 
Yet when I name custom, I understand not the vulgar custom ; 
for that were a precept no less dangerous to language than life, 
if we should speak or live after the manners of the vulgar ; but 
that I call custom of speech, which is the consent of the learned ; 
as custom of life, which is the consent of the good." Jonson 
practises what he preaches. There is scarcely a word now 
obsolete in the whole essay on style. Occasionally we find one 
or two, as in the following, but their meaning is readily under- 



NO TES ON ELIZA BE THAN PR OSE. 6 1 

Stood in the connection : ** Our style should be like a skein of 
silk, to be carried and found by the right thread, not ravelled 
and perplexed ; then all is a knot, a heap. There are words 
that do as much raise a style as others can depress it. Superla- 
tion and overmuchness amplifies. It may be above faith, but 
never above a mean." While we might dispense with superla- 
iiotif it is a pity that we have lost the expressive overmuchness. 
This is a word after Mr. Freeman's own heart. 

The chief fault I should find with Jonsgn's style is one char- 
acteristic of all writers of the time, a tendency to ellipsis, 
especially ellipsis of the subject and of the substantive verb, 
which ellipses exist in Shakspere passim. For clearness and 
smoothness of style, simplicity and purity of expression, correct 
structure and forcible balance of sentence, avoidance of cum- 
brous periods, which almost always lead in the Elizabethan 
writers to ungrammatical structure, — though Jonson recognizes 
that " periods are beautiful when they are not too long," — for 
all these desirable qualities of a good prose style, we shall 
find no Elizabethan writer surpassing Ben Jonson. His lib- 
eral culture, his sound judgment, his ** much exercise of his 
own style" in his dramatic writings, all contributed to place 
Jonsgn's prose among the best of the period, and to furnish a 
standing example of the benefits conferred upon the language 
by its cultivation in the Elizabethan drama. 

In the history of English prose style, it is " a far cry," from 
Lyly to Jonson, although they were contemporaries for thirty- 
three years, a fiill generation. In point of time, however, at least 
fifty years separate the * Euphues ' and the * Discoveries,' and the 
progress made in style during that period is correspondent. Still, 
apart from Lvlv's peculiar affectations and more archaic vocabu- 
lary and sentence-structure, it does not seem to me fanciful to find 
like simplicity and purity of expression in each. Jonson im- 
proved upon LvLY even more than Lyly had improved upon 
his predecessors, but I think that both may rightly be called, in 
the words of John Eliot, " raffineurs de I'Anglois." 



IV. — The Gesie of Auberi le Bourgoing. 
By THOMAS McCABE, Ph. D., 

INSTRUCTOR IN ROMANCE LANGUAGES IN THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHI- 
GAN, ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN. 

The • Geste ' of Auberi le Bourgoing, or Bourgignon 
(it is variously written) is contained in three MSS. all of which 
are in the Biblioth^que Nationale, Paris. The first and most 
important of these is No. 860, Fonds franfaiSy containing 
besides our poem a series of other * Gestes ' of leading import- 
ance. The *Auberi' of this MS. is the most lengthy of the 
three, it numbers some 27,264 lines and is in excellent condition 
except that two or three of the last folios are wanting. The MS. 
is of about 1250 and is divided into two principal branches : 
that of Auberi and that of Lambert d'orridon ; Auberi, 
however, being the most prominent character in both. The 
beginning of the second, which might escape attention unless 
one were reading the whole, is on the sixty-ninth folio of the 
poem which itself commences on page one hundred and thirty- 
four of the entire codex. A second MS. is No. 859, Fonds 
frangaiSy also of about 1250. It is shorter than the first, con- 
taining a litde over 23,000 verses. The MS. is an interesting 
one. It was damaged in some way but has been very deftly 
repaired. The fly-leaves consist of portions of a Code of Jus- 
tinian and of a book of devotions, both in Latin ; its second 
branch, that of Lambert d'Orridon, commences on folio 
ninety-nine. The third MS. is No. 24,368, Fonds /ran fais, and 
contains 22,648 verses, ending, instead of the usual explicit^ 
with the note: "ce fut fet I'an de grace MCC IIII XX XVIII 
le prochain mardy devant la nativity." The second branch of 
this commences on folio fifty-two. There have been other MSS. 
of this * Geste ' but they are lost. C. Fauchet, the sixteenth- 
century philologist and critic, in a note he makes on the margin 
of folio one hundred and thirty-six of MSS. 860, speaks of 
another which has disappeared. Immanual Bekker in 1829, 
speaks of "eine dem Herrn Professor von der Hagan 
gehorige Pergamenthandschrift" of 'Auberi,' but where this may 
now be I was not able to discover (vide the preface to Bek- 
KER*s ' Roman von Fierabras,' Berlin 1829). A search which 
J made in the manuscript catalogues of the Arsenal and Maza- 



GESTE OF AUBERI LE BOVRGOING. 63 

rin libraries and in those of the Department libraries which I 
could find in the Biblioth^que Nationale, did not reveal anything 
further upon the subject. 

The • Geste ' has never been published. The most ever done 
in that direction was by P. Tarbe who published a volume : 

* Le Roman d'Aubery le Bourgoing/ Reims, 1849, being the 
sixth volume of his 'Collection des pontes de Champagne 
ant^rieurs au xvi si^le.* The title given by Tarbe to his work 
is very misleading. Instead of containing * Le Roman d'Aubery 
le Bourgoing/ it contains only 5,300 lines out of a total of 
22,648 comprised by the MS. which he used and consists only 
of extracts made from the poem. The volume is not of much 
use ; for the extracts seem to be made at random. Lines are 
omitted without indication of the fact and the notes connecting 
extracts, perhaps some thousands of lines apart in the manu- 
script, are of the most meager kind. The copying is not 
always correct and MS. 24,368 has alone been used, which is 
clearly the worst and least reliable one of the three, as may be 
seen from an examination of the text. Fauriel also, in his 

* Histoire litt6raire de la France,' vol. xxii, p. 318, draws atten- 
tion to the fact of the inferiority of MS. 24,368, the one used 
by Tarbe. Tarbe's volume contains, of course, no attempt 
at collation. Francisque Michel published four hundred 
verses from 'Auberi' in the introduction to his 'Chanson de 
Roncevaux,' and Immanuel Bekker in the preface to his 
work above cited published some two hundred and six verses. 
A further selection of three hundred and sixty lines may be 
found in Bartsch et Horning : * La Langue et la lilt^rature 
fran9aises,' p. 131. Apart from these selections, or series of selec- 
tions, nothing has been done on the MSS. ; they still demand 
collation and publication. The ' Geste ' appears to have received 
but littie treatment. Paulin Paris in * Les manuscrits franjais 
de la Biblioth^que du Roi,' ii, 360, has a few lines descriptive of 
the three MSS. ; and Fauriel, * Histoire litt^raire,* vol. xxii, 
p. 318, has devoted a few pages to the ' Geste,' consisting of a 
brief analysis of its contents. The 'Geste' is alluded to by 
name elsewhere, but very rarely, indeed hardly ever. 

With respect to the relative value of the MSS., there can be 
no doubt but that, as already said, the one from which Tarbe 
published his extracts. No. 24,368, is the worst. It contains 
awkward, confused and incorrect readings, with occasional 
omissions of lines, while the decasyllabic character of the verse 



€4 THOMAS McCABE. 

is not always maintained. This MS. bearing the date already 
quoted, 1298, is also doubtless the most recent, as may be seen . 
from the study of the text. The. other two are placed by P. 
Paris at about 1250 and certainly show a somewhat older form 
of the language than No. 24,368 ; the rule of the s^ for instance, 
is better preserved and some of the verbal flexions are older. 
The best, as well as the longest, is No. 860, a very beautiful and 
valuable MS. which contains also, according to Fauriel, the 
best text of the poem of ' Gaidon ' and of 'Amis et Amile.' 

The MSS. 859 and 24,368 resemble each other pretty closely 
and could be collated. They contain, each, about 23,000 
verses. No. 860 has between four and five thousand verses 
more than either of these two and is an interesting example of 
the " watering" process by which a * Geste' could be and was 
indefinitely prolonged. Episodes are introduced, or those 
already existing are developed and dilated upon. An interest- 
ing example of this may be seen in the first selection which 
follows from this MS. (860) and which may be compared with 
the extract previously mentioned in Bartsch and Horning's 

* La Langue et la Litt^rature franjaises,' p. 131, which narrates 
the same incidents. In spite, however, of these intercalations 
and developments, the general march of events in the three 
MSS. is the same, as is also the denouement. In the event of 
publication, it is MS. No. 860 which should form the basis for 
work on account both of its reliability and its completeness. 
Quite a number of additions to the old French vocabulary 
would be obtained as the result of a careful editing. 

'Auberi le Bonrgoing,* like the better known *Girard de 
Roussillon ' and others of the same class, belongs to the great 
division of Old French epic poety known as the Feudal epic, 
the one, that b, which recounts either the long struggles of the 
barons against royalty which filled the ninth and tenth centuries, 
or the interminable wars which obtained between the barons 
themselves. 'Auberi' belongs to the latter class and is an 
excellent specimen in character at least, though certainly not 
in historical accuracy. Like * Girard de Roussillon,' too, it is 
Burgundian ; at least in subject. But the principal one of the 
poems on * Girard * is written in a dialect between French and 
Provencal while our monument is in the Isle de France, or 
Champagne idiom. As far as its origins are concerned, it may 
certainly be classed among the older chansons like the * Roland,' 

* Renaud de Montauban,' *Guillaume au court nez (or d'Orange),' 



GESTE OF A UBERI LE BO UR GOING, 65 

the 'Girard' already mentioned and others. Pepik le Bref 
(752-768) frequendy appears in the second branch of our 
'Geste' and the general character of the events recounted, 
whether real or imagined, are in harmony with the condition of 
things in these early centuries. Fauriel indeed considers it 
" probablement de tr^ anciei^e origine germanique. Peut-^tre 
remonte-il jusqu'aux premiers temps de T^tablissement des 
Burgundes sur les deux rives du Rhin." (V. * Hist. litt. de la 
France, xxiii,' p. 318.) It would probably now be impossible to 
disentangle the history from the romance. Whatever historical 
basis (and there was of course one) the events recounted may 
once have had, has been overwhelmed in our MSS., and doubt- 
less long before, by purely fanciful and fictitious developments ; 
the " chronicle " element, both in regard to facts and the order 
of their arrangement, has been entirely overweighted by the 
romantic, and lost. The confusion of epochs, persons, and 
localities to which we are so accustomed in literature of this 
character and period is as prominent as usual. The eighth, 
ninth and tenth centuries are hopelessly confounded and it 
would appear that the thirteenth century listeners were entirely 
cognizant of the fact ; for, in a number of passages, our author 
finds it necessary to insist strenously upon his own correctness 
and veracity. This indeed was already the case in the twelfth 
century, as may be seen from the following quotations taken 
fi-om the " Prologue de la Chronique de Turpin,'* (v. Paulin 
Paris, 'MSS. fi^n9ais de la Biblioth^que du Roi,' i, 212 : *' nus 
contes rim6s n'est vrais : tot est mensonge 9a qu'il en dient : car 
il n'en savent riens fors quant par oir dire.'* A striking criticism 
from an age so uncritical as the twelfth century. 

It is of course not possible to establish any date for the com- 
position of our poem. The earliest MS. we have is, as already 
stated, of about 1250 and, after allowing for the long period of 
floating instability through which all the early chansons passed, 
we may presume that our 'Geste' took on something like its 
present form in the twelfth, perhaps even at the end of the 
eleventh century. The author, as usual, is hopelessly unknown, 
although Paulin Paris suggests the possibility of one of 
the adaptors having been Bertrand de Bar-sur-Aube. 
It is not improbable, however, that he may have been a clerc as 
he shows adways a keen sympathy with the church and with 
ecclesiastical and spiritual matters generally. The 'Geste,' 
unlike many of its fellows, was never written in prose. 



66 THOMAS McCABE. 

We have seen that the historical importance of our poem, at 
least as a chronicle of events, b almost nil, nor as a story has it 
much sequence. It is rather a long series of adventures through 
which Auberi, the hero, is carried. Some of these adventures 
appear indeed to be duplicated, as for instance the two occasions 
upon which Auberi and Gasselin are represented as residing in 
Bavaria. Auberi has been wronged by his relatives and is com- 
pelled to seek redress and fortune as best he may. His strong 
arm and ever ready sword carry him successfully through many' 
adventures the scenes of which are laid in Burgundy, Flanders, 
Bavaria, and Paris. Blood flows freely. He is swift to avenge 
his wrongs and sullied by many crimes yet not vindictive or 
cruel. Episodes of all kinds : warlike, amorous, political, domes- 
tic, are successively presented and in all Auberi appears essen- 
tially the same daring, reckless, volatile, character. Ready at 
any moment to draw the sword, whether for vengeance or attack, 
he b as ready to yield to the first suggestion of indulgence, or 
pleasure, of any and every kind. After years of wandering 
and fighting he, accompanied by his faithful kinsman Gasselinf 
rids the land of Orri, King of Bavaria, of its invaders, and, on 
the death of the king, receives as a reward the hand of his 
widow Guiborc, represented as the sister of Charles Martel. 
Many further adventures follow in which Auberi remains always 
the same character, not in any way different from what he was 
in his youth, and at last in a passage of considerable power he 
suffers a bloody death under most tragic circumstances. He 
may, in many respects at least, be fairly enough considered a 
fair type of the average mediaeval baron and in this fact his 
main interest for us lies. He is the most clearly defined char- 
acter in the * Geste ' and we feel that we have at least some 
acquaintance with him. The others are shadowy. Gasselin, 
the constant companion of Auberi; Orri, King of Bavaria; 
Guiborc, his wife and widow; the two sons of Orri who fall 
the victims of Auberi's revenge: the countess of Flanders, 
one of Auberi's mistresses, all play important rdles in the 
long series of adventures, but all appear as dim and shadowy 
outlines merely, and fail entirely to impress their person- 
ality upon us ; in this respect, of course, only resembling the 
great majority of mediaeval literary characters. Senneheut, the 
daughter of Guiborc, stands out for a moment more prominently 
and enlists our sympathies by an act of maidenly independence 
in rehising the hand of Gasselin whom her new father-in-laW, 



GESTE OF A UBERI LE BOURGOING, 67 

Auberi, had selected for her, but a violent blow from Auberi 
recalls her to a sense of dependence and she once more becomes 
a shadow. Lambert, next to Auberi the most prominent char- 
acter in the second branch, has somewhat more personality. He 
is presented as a robber baron and serves as a type, though a 
different one from Auberi. He, too, is brave, daring, violent, 
but more essentially wicked, and relies more upon craft and 
cunning. The descriptions involved in presenting him and his 
surroundings are really interesting and typical. See, for 
instance, the description of his gloomy and impregnable 
casde printed herewith. (No. II, p. 77). 

It is, however, as a picture of mediaeval life and society that 
the * Geste ' possesses its main interest. The life of the eleventh 
and twelfth centuries, feudalism with all its varied developments, 
lie vividly before us. The petty wars eternally waging between 
the barons with but a feeble recognition of royal authority, the 
constant strife of factions, the marauding expeditions of the 
robber baron preying upon the surrounding country, these 
things form prominent features throughout the poem. The 
remarkable mediaeval contradictions between faith and life are 
strongly brought out. Revolting brutality goes hand in hand 
with the most unquestioning piety, and this not only in different 
individuals but actually in the same. Violence goes side by 
side with superstition, utter recklessness of action with the most 
unswerving religious faith, an intense and child-like veneration 
for the church and its institutions with the most reckless disre- 
gard of its behests. The strongly marked mediaeval idea, bom 
of the teaching of the church, as to the nearness of God to 
punish the evil and recompense the good, though conslandy 
belied by the events of the poem, is consistently adhered to 
and poetical justice is eventually meted out to some at least. 
The singular inconsistency by which the assistance and cooper- 
ation of God and the saints are invoked in order to carry out 
deeds of blood and cruelty, is frequendy illustrated. The sins 
and wrongs committed are those we should expect from child- 
hood and ignorance, namely — sins and wrongs resulting from 
thoughtiessness, recklessness, passionateness, and want of self- 
restraint. The men are the active agents almost always; the 
women are passive and seem better than the men, although 
unfortunately far too shadowy to leave any very clear impres- 
sino. The characters are limited in number and almost all of 
the same class, the noble ; the only exceptions being an occa- 



68 THOMAS McCABE. 

sional priest or hermit. The people are hardly even mentioned. 
We know indeed that they are there, for they are fighting the 
battles of their lords, are being plundered and are dying in 
droves. Except for these purposes, however, they hardly 
appear to exist. Literature scarcely as yet deigns to take cog- 
nizance of them, least of all the Chansons de Gestes^ so essen- 
tially aristocratic in their character. Frequent allusions and 
remarks in the poem give us a kind of acquaintance with the 
poet and his audience. We see that in some of its phases at 
least the poem was sung, for allusions to singing occur frequendy, 
and Lanbers, in a passage of considerable interest, sings Q^fab- 
loier ei chanter ^^) the story of the good king Clovis, of Floovent 
and the vassal Richier. The author insists upon his veracity 
and trustworthiness and the assurance seems to have been 
necessary, for it is repeated more than once. In order to call 
attention to his verses he assures his listeners that he is not 
presenting them with the original. In order to coerce attention, 
he threatens them with never finishing, or tells them that a 
particularly interesting passage is now about to follow. He 
endeavors by various devices to excite the sympathy of his 
audience, now endeavoring to stir them up, now calming them. 
All these things would appear to be traces of an earlier phase 
of the chanson when it was more strictly popular in character 
and before it had reached the extremely developed stage in 
which we now have it. 

As far as the purely literary aspects of our poem are con- 
cerned, it would not be fair to claim a more than usual amount 
of merit for it. The inevitable mediaeval characteristics : diffuse- 
ness, verbosity, sterotypedness, and the commonplace are of 
course there, nor could it well be otherwise in poems of twenty- 
three and twenty -eight thousand lines covering so small a range 
of subjects. The process of dilution has evidently again and 
again been repeated as some of the accompanying extracts will 
show. The usual stock expressions occur with the customary 
profusion ; in a word, that banaliU which characterizes so much 
Old French Literature is not less marked here than elsewhere. 
Happily, however, the poem is occasionally redeemed by pas- 
sages of real interest, even of power. Those describing the 
castle and surroundings of Lambert, and the assassination of 
Auberi have already been referred to. Others are the scene 
with the necromancer, the interview between Guiborc and 
Auberi and later that between Senneheut and Auberi. 



GESTE OF A UBERI LE BOURGOING. 69 

As to the extracts, hitherto unpublished, which follow, No. i 
from MS. 860, may be compared with Bartsch and Horning, 
' La Langue et la Litt6rature fran^aises,' p. 131, to illustrate 
what has been referred to above. No. ii is the description of 
the casde and surroundings of Lanbers, also referred to. Nos. 
iii and iv are from different MSS., respectively 24, 368 and 860, 
and illustrate the process of dilution by means of which the 
same * Geste ' may appear in one version as a poem of twenty- 
seven, or more, thousand lines, while in another it is limited to 
twenty-two odd thousand. In the two extracts here presented, 
the second contains sixty-two lines and the first forty-eight only, 
yet the events recounted are substantially, indeed identically 
the same, the difference in the amount of the text being made 
up by development and extension of detail. 

I. 
MS. 860, Fands franfais. Folio 206 b, 

Au mengier sistrent Ii baron el chastel : 
la veissiez maint riche danmoisel, 
qui tient toaille ou doublier ou coutel. 
vin dare i vent a grant revel. 
Lanbers apelle un sien prive donzel : 
" va si m'aporte dou vin dou grant tonnel, 
a men seignor en donrai plain boucel." 
icil i vait et moult le fist isnel. 
Lanbers en jure le cors Saint Daniel, 
se Ii Borgoins ne Ii fait son avel 
de Seneheut qui tant a le cors bel, 
qu'il Ii metra Tespee enz au cervel. 

Lanbers fu plains de mauvais ensciant ; 
Auberi mainne par engingnement grant. 
s*il le puet faire ainsiz com il Ten prant, 
Auberi fera son cuer morne et dolant. 
se ne Ii donne Seneheut la vaillant, 
ne verra mais ne fame ne parant, 
ne la roine Guiborc o le cors j ant. 
or le gart dex de mort et de torment, 
au mengier sistrent Ii baron richement : 
Ii escanson portent le vin souvent 
a Auberi qui garde ne s*em prent. 
Lanbers le veult enivrer voirement. 
quant il Ii menbre de son riche present 
des coupes d'or et des hannaps d 'argent, 
damneledeu jure cui tous Ii mons apent, 
se il Ta si tout donne por noient, 
dont Ta il bien despendu folement, 



70 



THOMAS McCASE. 

qu^a Seneheut ses coraiges li tent, 
que trop la vit de bel contenement. 
et si seit bien Lanbers a enscient» 
ja Seneheut n 'aura a son talent 
se Auberis li Borgoins ne li rent, 
il en jura le baron saint Vincent, 
se li Borgoins ne li a en couvent, 
ja dou chastel n'istra mais son vivant. 

De Seneheut prinst Lanbert a membrer, 
se il ne Ta, n'en porra eschaper. 
dou Borgoingnon ne seit comment ouvrer, 
car en tel lieu Tavoit fait enserrer, 
se par lui n*est n'en puet mais eschaper. 
or li dira coiememt et souef, 
se il li weult sa fillastre donner, 
il Ten laira et sain et sauf raler ; 
et s'il nel puet on Borgoingnon trouver, 
il li fera le chief dou bus sevrer. 
ja en Bavijere mais n*en porra raler. 
li Borgoingnons le prinst a resgarder; 
souvent li voit le vis descoulorer ; 
d'eures en autres li voit coulor muer. 
cortoisement Ten prinst a apeller: 
*' sir couzins, nel me devez celer. 
qui vos a fait ainsiz desconforter ? 
tant que je vive ne vous estuet douter, 
n*a home en terre qui vous osast grever, 
nes a Pepin sil vous voloit pener, 
por vostre amor me voldroit mesler." 
Lanbers respont, qui bien sot trestomer : 
'*sire couzins, ainz voil deu aourer, 
quant vous deingnastez onques ceinz entrer, 
et quant vous puis serviv et honorer, 
se vous voliez a mon talent ouvrer, 
je vous feroie quant qu' ozeriez panser. 
se vous nel faitez moi Testuet consirrer.'* 
a ces paroles fait le vin demander, 
a val la table mult richement porter, 
aprez mengier font les napes oster. 
Lanbers a iait la sale delivrer, 
et les barons a lor ostex raler. 
ceuls qui soloient o le due converser, 
fist un et un a lor osteuls aler. 
panre les rueve et en prison mener 
a ses serjans que fist apres aler. 
cil ne si sorent de traison garder. 
Lanbers les fait en buies enserrer ; 
comment qu'il voille vers Auberi ouvrer, 
que cil nel puissent de noient encombrer. 
ainsiz Tont fait nel voldrent refuser. 



CESTE OF AUBERI LE BOURGOING. 

la gent le due ont fait ainsiz mener, 
car li traitres lor sot bien deviser, 
dont fait Lanbers son grant palais fermer. 
voit Auberi seM prant a apeller: 
*' couzin, dist i1, je voil a vous parler. 
je vous voldrai mon afaire monstrer, 
car mult me doi en vostre cors fier. 
li uns ne doit envirs I'autre fausser." 
a dont I'enmainne sans plus de demorer. 
en une chanbre fait Auberi entrer. 
Ill I en trespasse, ainz nl volt arrester, 
en la quinte entre, la le fist demorer. 
iluec or fait un grant feu alumer ; 
li chandelabre j reluisoient cler, 
et oil se painne de lui mult honorer. 
d*un autre vin li a fait aporter. 
<* buvez couzin, cist est bons a verser, 
cist vous fera de dormir saouler." 
s'ainsnee niece fait Lanbers apeller, 
et celle i vient qui ne Tose veer, 
il n'a si bele enfresci qu*a la mer. 
et dist Lanbers: *' Auberi, gentiz ber, 
voiez, biax, sire com ceste a le vis cler; 
je la vous voil anque nuit presenter, 
se la volez par de vers voz tomer. 
de vostre bon n'estera refuser, 
bieu vous saura servir et tastonner. 
en vostre cuer poez bien porpenser 
de la roine Guiborc o le vis cler. 
ce fu folie couzin de I'esponser, 
que ses ii. fiuls li feiz affoler. 
cuidez tu ores qu'elle te dole amer? 
I. des cesjors vous fera enherber, 
s'elle en a aise ge'l vous di sans fausser. 
et a sa fille veuls ton neveu donner. 
trop te veuls ores au lyngnaige meller ; 
II te feront de la terre gieter. 
c'est une chose dont mult vous doit peser. 
je nel lairoie souflfrer ne endurer." 
Auberis I'oit, le sens cujde desver. 
toute la chars li commence a tranbler, 
de mautalent commence a tressuer. 
dist Auberis sans plus de demorer : 
'* foi que ie doi a touz homes porter, 
se ne laissiez la roinne a blasmer 
et moi et vos convenra mesler." 
quant Lanbers I'oit si saigement parler 
or seit il bien que plus I'estuet mener. 
a mort se tient s'il nel puet enyvrer. 



71 



72 THOMAS McCABE. 

Lanbers se painne d'Auberi engingnier. 
Souvent li donne de son vin le plus cher. 
li dus en boit qui ne si sot gaitier, 
et cil Lanbers Je prinst a arraisnier: 
" sire cousin, mult faitez a prisier ; 
or chanterai por voz esbannoier. 
je sai de geste les chansons commencier 
que nus jongleres ne m'en puet engingnier. 
je sai assez dou bon Roi Cloevjer, 
de Floevent et dou vassal Richier. 
dirai vus ent volentiers sans trichier.** 
dont commensa Lambers a flabloier, 
et a chanter hautement sanz dongier. 
a chascun vers li fait le vin baillier. 
d'eures en antres le prent a arraisnier. 
" sire Auberi, mentir ne vus enquier ; 
ne me sai plus vers vus humelier, 
que mes i[. nieces aurez vus au couchier. 
serviront vus com seignor droiturier. 
bien seit Lanbers Auberi engingnier. 
les q. pucelles le servent sanz dongier, 
si li commencent le dos a mannoier, 
et le tastonnent et devaut et derrier. 
ainz Auberis tant ne si sot gaitier, 
que li traitres nel feist forvoier. 

" Sire couzin» dist li fel de put lin, 
or vus ferai aporler d 'autre vin. 
11 n'a si bon jusqu'a 11 ave dou Rin. 
je n*en donnaisse a parent n'a couzin» 
se ce ne fust mon droit seignor Pepin." 
venir en fait tout plain i. mazerin. 
Auberis but qui ni quist point d*engin. 
a dont tint il Lanbert por son couzin. 
a la pucelle an coraige enter in, 
tent li Borgoins le plain hannap de vin. 
Elle le prent se 11 a fait enclin. 
Quant dou bou vin que vus m'oez conter, 
fait dus Lanbers Auberi enyvrer, 
souz ciel n*a home qui s'en poist garder, 
dont fait Lanbers la chanbre deflfermer. 
en I. biau lieu afait i. lit parer. 
le Borgoingnon j fait tantost mener. 
por reposer si couche Auberis li ber. 
li dus s'en dort ileue sanz demorer. 
Lanbers li vait sa bonne espee oster. 
toutes ses armes fait don palais enbler, 
et ses II. nieces em prinst a apeller. 
" pansez hui mais d'Aubeij tastonner» 
^r ainz le jor del I'estevra parler." 



CESTE OF A UBERI LE BOURGOING. 73 

oit le r ainsnee si commence a plorer, 
car bien connoist de Lanbert le panser. 
**sire, dist clle, por dcu nel vergonder. 

tel traison qui porroit endurer ? 

ja le vi ie ensanble o vus souper. 

tes ostes est si ne le dois grever, 

et tes amis si le dois mult amer. 

s'or en ooit li Rois Pepin parler 

il vus feroit tout cest pais gaster, 

et Oridon abatre et violer; 

que sa suer est Gujbors o le vis cler." 

oit la Lanbers, le san cuide desver. 

dou poing la fiert bien Tan sot assener, 

qu'il en fist le vermoil sane voler. 

*' garce, dist il, bien savez ranposner. 

se ie hui mais vus en oi mot sonner 

je vus ferai anz 11, les iex crever." 

volsist ou non la fait an due aler, 

et la plus josne i fait Lanbers aler. 

de jouste luj s'alerent acouder. 

si le commencent mult bel a tastonner. 

li dus se dort qui mal ni sot panser. 

et cil Lambers ne si volt oublier, 

ainz fait la chanbellain sor euls u\, bien fermer. 

son chanbellain emprinst a apeller. 

Lanbers apelle son chanbellain Foucher. 
" fai moi venir Herchenbaut et Renier, 
Giron le preu et le conte Gauder, 
et X des autres qui mult sont a prisier.** 
cil les amainne qui ne Tosa laissier. 
Lanbers les voit ses prent a arraisnier. 
" Baron, dist il, savez moi conseilHer. 
quant qu'en Baivjere me veistez chercher, 
le mien despendre et mon tresor wisder, 
dert por la fille Roi Oulri le Baiyjer, 
qui est fillastre Auberi le guerrier, 
avoir la voil a per et a moillier. 
se Auberis ne le veult otroier 
ji li ferai tons les menbres trancher. 
or m*en aidiez nobile chevalier, 
ja contre vus mais ne tenrai denier." 
quant cil Toirent n'ot en euls qu'a irier. 
"Sire, font il, weuls te tu enraigier? 
or le veismez ensanble o vus mengier. 
tex traisons ne fait a atroier. 
de tel afaire ne vus devons aidier. 
trap laidement le volez engingnier. 
sel seit Pepin fera vos esdllier." 
Lanbers I'entent, le sens cujde changier. 



74 



THOMAS McCABE. 

en sa main tint i. baston de pomier. 

par mautalent va ferir le premier, 

qu'il li fait la teste roujoier. 

'*fil a putain, dist Lanbers pautonnier, 

au mien despendre n*iestez vus pas lasnier, 

mais ansoiz iestez esrant et presantier. 

mais par la foi que ie doi deu dou ciel, 

jamais dou mien ne panrez i. mengier. 

Ie matinnet vus metez au frapier." 

quant cil Tentendent ni ot que esmaier. 

dont se commencent mult a amoloier. 

" sire, font il, laissiez votre tancier, 

que tons vos bons ferons sang delaier." 

Lanbers les oit vers lui humelijer. 

dont les mercie et plus les va baisier. 

dex penst dou due qui tout puet justicier ! 

car en tel lieu est venus harbergier, 

se dex n'en pause, quil comperra mult cher. 

Lanbers s'apreste sanz nulle demoree. 
chascons des suens a la broigne andossee, 
liaume lacie et au costel Tespee. 
Tuns tient juzarme, Tautres hache aceree. 
bien sanblent gent de mal faire aprestee. 
ainz por i. home ne fu tez assanblee. 
Lanbers lor a la chanbre deffermee. 
cil entrent eng a mult tres grant huee. 
li Borgoins dort en la chanbre pavee, 
si com li hom qui n*ot nulle pansee 
qu' on li eust traison porparlee. 
et Lanbers tint une lance aceree. 
desci au lit ni ot fait arreste. 
le due resgarde a la chiere menbree. 
de Tarrestueil tele li a donnee, 
pres ne li a la poi trine effondree. 
li dus s'esveille s*a la chiere levee, 
et voit la gent en tor luj avn^e. 
de la paor li est la chars tranblee. 
seignor baron ! cest veritez puree (?), 
que mult est mors cremue et redoutee. 
sa maisnie a et sa gent regret ee. 
"sainte marie, roinne coronneee! 
qui me donna ores si grant colee ?" 
et dist Lanbers : *' ni a mestier celee : 
m 'ainsnee niece avez vos violee ; 
ne poiez iestre de cell saoulee, 
se n'aviez I'autres ansiz despucelee." 
dist Auberis : "je lai ja comparee." 
la moie foit vus soit ore affiee, 
qu* ongues par moi n'en fu une adesse, 



GESTE OF A USER I LE BOUR GOING. 75 



II 



ne par mon cors en nule san vers^ondee. 
et dist Lambers : "querela V avez trouvee 
vo lecherie ne pot iestre ainz finee." 

Or fu li dus a malaise forment, 
et les pucelles en plovent tenrement. 
li Borgoignons a mult le cuer dolent. 
or voit Lanbert se li dist sinplement : 
"sire couzins, por deu omnipotent, 
ne me menez ainsiz vilainement. 
la moie foi vus plevis loiaument, 
qu* onques a elles n*en oi habitement.'* 
et dist Lanbers : " or oiez com il ment, 
et com il a eel cuer faus et puant.'* 
Tespie paumoie, lance luj roidement 
les le costel li conduist vivavment ; 

li fers j froie mais nel toucha noient. 
quant Auberis le fer de Tespie sent, 
n*est pas merveille se grans paors Ten prent. 
il li escrie a sa vols hautement : 
** merci Lanbert J 'ai en toi mau parent, 
lai m'en aler arriere cujtement. 
ji te randrai ton or et ton argent." 
et dist Lambers : "par deu omnipotent, 
ou vus ferez trestout le mien talent, 
on ie panrai de vus tel vengement 
dont aurout honte trestuit vostre parent." 
Auberis Toit, s'en a grant mautalent. 
" Dex ! dist il, peres par ton commandement, 
garis mon tors de mort et de torment, 
qu*a Ostesin puisse aler sauvement, 
a ma moillier qui iluecques m'atent!" 
En Borgoingnon n*en ot que esmaier, 
car il n'a armes dont il se puisse aider, 
ne il ne s*ose en son estant drescier. 
enverz Lanbert se laist jus abaissier. 
" merci couzin, par deu le droiturier. 
vus m'amenastez avec vus harbergier. 
se vus savez sor moi Hens chalongier, 
vez moi tout prest de mon cors esporgier, 
tout cors a cors encontre i. chevalier, 
on contre i\. se on I'ose jugier." 
et dist Lambers : " ce ne vault un denier, 
je ne feroie riens por vostre proier, 
lone le service vus randrai le loier." 
lors rancommence Tespie a paumoier. 
voit le Auberis, ni ot que esmaier. 
en crois se giete devant lui el planchier : 
" merci couzins ! se tu weuls si me fier." 
et Lanbers tint le roit espie d'acier. 



76 THOMAS McCASE. 

par tel oir li commeiice a lander. 

jussqu*au planchier fait le fer envoier, 

mais nel volt mie afoler ne touchier. 

or ot paor Auberis li guerriers. 

ainz puis celle hore qu'on Tot fait chevalier 

tel paor n*ot, bien le puis affichier. 

" dex ! dist il, peres qui le mont dois jugier; 

a tant frauc homme ai fait son cuer irier ; 

des maus qu'ai fais atenz ci le loier. 

mais dex de gl<nre m'en puet bien respitier. 

he! Guiborc danme,dex vus gart dencombrier*' 

Mult ot Lanbers le cuer desmesure. 
ses homes clunjgne (cligne ?) a tant s'en sent tome. 
Auberi voit auques espoante. 
n*ot que ses braies si tijuel desnoe. 
par nil. fois li a I'espie crosle. 
les dens reschingne, sanblant fait de desve, 
les iex roeille par mult ruiste fierte. 
on voit le due si Ta arraisonne. 
"par foi Borgoins, vus avez tout ale, 
car vus avez maint prudon ahonte. 
de mainte danme avez fait vostre gre ; 
hui en cest jor vus iert gueredonne." 
dont lor seignor ont eugrant vilte. 
quant qu'avez fait en trestout vostre ae, 
Tespie li froie par delez le costel. 
li dus guenchist, son cors a trestome. 
"merci! li crie, por sainte charite." 
li chevalier emplorent de pite. 

La gent Lanbert plorent por Auberi, 
lor seignor toillent le roit espie forbi. 
* ** sire, font il, por amor deu merci, 
qui tout le mont a son oes establi." 
et dist Lanbers : *'or m*avez maubailli, 
qui le Borgoing m'avez tolu ainsiz. 
deceu m'a que ie le sai de fi. 
des mes i\, nieces vergonde et honi. 
je n*el cuidaisse, foi que dois S. Remi, 
qui li donnast tout le tressor Davi, 
que il deust si ouvrer envers mi. 
mais s*il le weult acorder envers mi^ 
doist me i. avoir que jai mult encouvi. 
se ie ne Tai n'em partira deci.*' 
Auberis Toit. de joie tressailli. 
*' sire Lanbert, ie vus ai bien oi. 
Volez vus dont mon desrier arrabi ? 
ne faites nie dongier por i. ronci. 
la male foudre Teust ansoiz brui," 

n'est pas ice,'' Lanbers li respond!. 



II 



GESTE OF AUBERI LE BOURGOING. 



77 



" autre avoir ai en vostre cort choisi. 

en ton ostel as tel oisel norri 

eschamis iez se il ni pert son nif." 

'*quax chose est ce, sire," dist Auberis. 

Lanbers respont, pas ne si alenti : 

" ce est le fille au riche Roi Oulri. 

donner li weuls Gasceliu a mari. 

donne la moi, si remanrons ami. 

ou se ce non n'eschaperaz de ci." 

oit le li dus, a poi n'enraige vis. 

puis dist en bas que nus ne Tentendi: 

"Gascelin nie; dont vus ai ie trai. 

a si grant painne touz jors m'avez servi, 

hui vus fera mult malement meri. 

Senehent bele ! com mar onques vus vi, 

se ie vus toil Gascelin vostre ami. 

he ! Guiborc danme, com mar vus en merci, 

dou traitor quant ne vus en crei/' 

a icest mot si forment s'esbahi, 

par un petit li cuers ne li rompi. 

en haut parole a loi d'omome hardi : 

"par deu, Lanbert, ce ne vault i. espi. 

ja ne Taurez se tu wenls si m*ocis." 

et dist Lanbers: ** par mon chief ie rotri." 

a dont reprant le brant d'acier forbi, 

ja Teust mort quant on li recoilli. 

II. 

MS. 860. Fonds /ran fats, Folio 202 or 6g of Gesie. Being the 

opening of the second branch of the Geste, and describing 

the castle, etc., of Lambert 

Or vus dirai d'une bonne chanson, 
com Auberis fu menez a Bricon 
par I. vassal qui Lanbers ot a non. 
fiuls fu Thiebaut, le plus maistre larron 
qui ainz emblast vaillant i. esporon. 
ou bois d*Ardenne ot un recet felon 
entre i\, eues dont ie sai bien les nons : 
ce est Samois, et Tautre a non Folon. 
en Mueze chient de merveillouz randon, 
la ou as^anblent demainent tel tanson 
q'il n*i vait ne nef ne aviron. 
nus horn ni passe ne a gue ne a pont. 
et li boijois mainent en quarreingnon 
enz en une isle de la roche Sanson, 
xxxm sont, chascuns an sa maison. 
par II. chaucies lor vient la garisons. 
bien sont fondees de chaus et de sablon. 
A seulement le giet a i. baston, 



78 THOMAS McCABE. 

fu li chastiax et la tors environ. 

bien fu assise par grant devision, 

de nulle part habiter ni puet on, 

fors d'une part si comme nus cuidons. 

la est Tantree, et, et par la j va on. 

pont tomeiz et barre a quarreillon, 

Selve j ot vielle des le tans Salemon. 

bien fu gamie de riche venoison. 

les la rivjere sont creu li fres jon, 

et I'erbe drue que coillent li garson. 

1p marois sont entor et environ, 

et li fosse qui forment sunt par font. 

li mur de maubre de chaus et de sablon, 

et les tomelles ou mainnent li baron» 

et li vivjer ou furent li poisson. 

si fort chastel ne vit onques nus horn. 

la dedens ot sa sale et so donjon, 

et sa chapelle par devant sa maison. 

qui la ienz est, bien est a garison. 

Lanbers la tient que n*en sert se luj non. 

oi avez dou chastel la fason, 

or vus dirai dont Lanbers fu larrons, 

de grans tressors que orent li baron. 

il n*iere mie seuls ne sanz compaingnon. 

maint home a mis a grant destruction, 

et mainte dame tolue a son baron. 

qui Tenmenoit avec luj en person, 

il en prennoit si dure raenson, 

qu'il le metoit a grant destruction. 

mult se doit on de Lambert merveillier, 

qui iii[. tans savoit de son mestier 

que li siens pere qui mult ot avoir chier. 

les lontains regnes faisoit querre et cherchier, 

et en septembre viennent li messaigier 

j cil qui vout les tressors espier. 

et il y va en y ver sans targier. 

mats ne va mie touz seuls a eel mestier, 

que avec lui enmainne maint murtrier. 

ccccc enmainne, ni a eel n*ait destrier. 

et haubers ont, et bons elmes d'acier, 

espees ceintes, escus poins a ormier, 

et lances roides, et gonfanons mult chers, 

espies tranchans qui font a resoingnier. 

et apres ceuls reviennent li archier, 

et li seijant et li aubelestrier, 

qu'il fait es mons et es vauls enbuschier ; 

qui sont tost fors quant il en a mestier. 

il va avant soi tierz por pesoier. 

ne doute pierre, o chaus, ne o mortier 



GESTE OF A UBERI LE BOUR GOING, 79 

ft 

qu'il ne face par devant luj percier, 

et les escrins et huges pesoier, 

puis que se puet dedens Tostel fichier. 

et tex le sieult, mieus li venroit laissier, 

qu'il Tenmainne avec soi prisonnier. , 

et si ]e fait en prison trebuchier, 

sel fait raienbre jusqu' a un seul dernier. 

et si n'est mie tant povres ne lasniers 

que L. homme ne*l servent au mengier, 

fil de barons, qui tuit sont chevalier, 

trestouz li pires a grant terre a baillier, 

et il les fait mult bien appareillier 

de riches armes, de pailes de quartier. 

et mult les fait richement haubergier. 

les elmes fait richement vemissier, 

et les escus par guises entaillier, 

et les haubers par mailles roujoier. 

ne vus devez pas de ce merveillier, 

qu'il est dus, grant terre a a baillier. 

trestoute Ardenne avoit a justicier. 

autres n'en tint la monte d'un denier. 

tl n'a voisin qui sost a lui corcier, 

qu'il ne voille isnellement plaisier, 

dou tout en tout honnir et vergoingnier. 

n'a son chastel ne puet nus approchier, 

se il n'i entre par le maistre portier. 

il n'a si fort desci a Montpellier, 

ne n'ot si riche cuens, ne dus, ne princiers. 

ez vus I mes qui li vint de Baiviers, 

si atorne com autres pautonniers. 

onques li glouz ne se volt atargier, 

ne son bordon ne sa paume laissier. 

ansoiz s'en va a Lambert conseillier. 

a une part s'en vait enz au vergier. 

Arreste soi deu coste le princier. 

Li pautonniers tint Lanbert par la main, 
et sont ale en i lieu d'erbe plain, 
les I roisier ou la flors naist au main, 
cil I'arraisonne, qui n'ot pas le cuir vain : 
"j'ai esre, sire, et par bois et par plain, 
par vostre amor, mais ne I'ai fait en vain ; 
et si vus ai auques fait vostre plain, 
j'ai espie tel gaing, par St. Germain, 
vostres tressors ne vault a ce i pain, 
en Bavijere est, qui n'est mie trop loing. 
une meschine ja, cui ie mult plaing, 
I. lecheor a mis a son reclaim." 
et dist Lanber : " cui chaut ja de putain ? ' 
dist li traitres : " non est par St. German. 



8o THOMAS McCABE. 

encores n'a manmelete en son sain, 
par sa biaute porroit iestre nonnain. 
niece est Pepin, de ce soiez certains, 
et fille Oulri, be bon roi sonverain. 
sor toutes danmes a le cors souverain. 
li siens amis ne sanble pas vilains. 
c'est Grascelins, qui mult par est certains, 
qui en Borgoingne ira hui ou demain. 
toute ]a terre doit resoivre en sa main. 

III. 

MSS. 24,368. Fonds Franfais, Folio 2gd. line 40, 

Au mens:ier sist li dus et si baron. 

de la uande orent il a foison, 

et si n'en sorent nul gre au due Oedon. 

Guiborc apele le bon due de Digon. 

"Sire, dist elle, et car nous esploitons. 

vers Ostelin s'en vait a esperon. 

celui nunt mie gaste li esclavon." 

"dame, distil, hui matin nous mouvrons.*' 

la nuit seioment en la sainte maison. 

ni orent cote lincheul ne siglaton. 

a lor chief font li hauberc fremillon. 

et li bon clers qui Amaurris ot non, 

qui nies estoit Auberi de Digon, 

de la roine sot taute la cheison, 

qu'elle doit prendre Auberi a baron. 

X. poi pensa Amaurris a baron, 

qu'en peu de terme mauves conseil prent on ; 

et s'elle vient ariere en son roion, 

a Ostesin en son mestre donion, 

conseil aura de maint gente facon. 

tost fausseroit vers le due sa raison. 

mes il puet dire par droit et par resson, 

qu*en la chapele ou maint li saintism hom, 

fust empensee sel sembleroit bon. 

lors ni avoit garde se de lui non. 

son oncle apele, le gentil bourgignon. 

tout souavet Ten a mis a resson. 

toute Tafaire li conta de randon. 

*' par mon cief niez,'* dist li dus de Digon, 

" cist conseus est sans point de traison, 

et ge feroi qui qu'en poist ne qui non," 

li bourgignon oi le clerc parler, 

qui le conseille de la dame esposer. 

'* biaus niez, dist elle, lentil estes et ber. 

je le feroi sans plus de demorer." 
la france dame emprent a apeler : 
*' Guibourc roine, mult me deves amer." 



CESTS OF AUBERI LE BOURGOING. 8l 

"si fes ie sire,'* dtst la dame au vis cler. 
et dist H dus : " chi nous voel esposer, 
se le voulez otroier et greer,'* 
et dis li dus: '* bien le doi creanter, 
vostre vouioir ae doi pas refuser.*' 
Auberi Tot ne si vout demorer. 
a la chapelle Ten a feite mener, 
ou li ermites dut la messe chanter, 
des armz deu s'estoit fet atomer 
ains puis qu*il vint en rermitaje ester, 
ne li fist on mes presse d*espouser. 

The MS. then continues as in case of No. 860 : — 

Auberi a la dame espousee, 

et li ermite a la messe chantee, &c., &c. 

IV. 
MS. 860. Fands /ran fats. Folio 178 a. 

Au mengier sist H dus et si baron. 

de viande ont a tas et a foison, 

et si n*en sevent nul gre au due Hoedon. 

la dame appelle Auberj de Dijon : 

*'sire, dist elle, et car nus esploitons. 

vers Ostesin, sire, car en alonz. 

celi n'ont mie gastee esclavon. 

dist Auberis le matin j ironz. 

la nuit sejorAent en la sainte maison. 

ui orent coulte ne drap ne syglaton. 

a lor chief sunt li hauberc fremeillon. 

au matinet s'aprestent li baron. 

et li bos clers qui Amaurris a non, 

qui nies estoit Aubeij de Dijon, 

de la roine sot toute Tachoison ; 

qu'elle doit panre Auberj le baron. 

I. petit panse Amaurris li frans hom, 

qu*en poi de terme mauvais conseil prent on ; 

et s'elle vient arriere en son roion, 

a Ostesin en son maistre donjon, 

conseil aura de maint chevalier bon. 

tost fausseront vers le due sa raison. 

mais se puet faire par dit ne par sermon 

qu'a la chapelle Tespousast li frans hom, 

feist ses noces. il li sambleroit bon, 

puis qu'elle auroit espouse le baron, 

il ni auroit se de li garde non. 

il en appelle Auberj de Dijon. 

tout soavet li conta sa raison. 

** par mon chief nies," respont li Borgoingnons, 

** ce est mult bon et tout sans traison, 



82 THOMAS McCABE, 

et gel ferai sans point d*arrestison.'' 
Li Borgoingnons oj le clerc parler, 
qui le conseille de la dame espouser. 
'* biax nies, dist il, mult faites a loer, 
et gel ferai sans point de demorer." 
la franche dame en prenst a appeller : 
** Guilborc roine, mult faites a amer. 
je vus voil dame ci aluec esposer, 
se le volez otroier et graer.** 
et dist la dame : ** bien le doi creanter. 
vostre conseil ne doi ie refuser.'* 
Auberis Toit, plus ne volt demorer. 
a la chapelle la tost faites mener, 
ou li herpiites doit sa messe chanter, 
des armes deu s'est tost fais acesmer, 
ainz puis qu'il vint au Termitaige ester, 
ne li fist nus presse mais d'espouser. 
en la chapelle estoient li baron, 
ou Auberis a receu le don 
de la roine a la clere fason. 
Gujbors appelle Gascelin le franc hom, 
et Thyebelin qui mult estoit prudom, 
li sains hermites fist la beneison. 
"dame, dist il, volez le Borgoingnon?** 
"oil, dist elle, par le cors saint Simon !" 
puis appella Aubeij par son non. 
*• volez Guiborc, frans chevaliers baron ?" 
dist Auberis : ** oil, par saint Fagon ! 
mult a lone tans que desirre I'avonz.'' 
que vus feroie lone plait ne lone sermon, 
la Tespousa li bons dus de Dijon. 

The MS. then continues as in case of No. 24,368 : — 

Auberis a la roine espousee, 

et li hermites a la messee chantee, &c.. &c. 



V. — Some Points in the Study of English Prose Style. 

By henry E. shepherd. LL. D.. 

president of the college of charleston, s. c. 

I purpose in the present paper to direct attention to certain 
influences by whose action the character of our English prose 
style is being more or less affected. It will be apparent at a 
glance that I do not design an elaborate exposition of any one 
phase of our modern literary life, but simply a concise discus- 
sion of some of its aspects that have been impressed upon me 
during a varied and changeful career as teacher of English 
literature. 

First of all» let me enter my protest against that democratiza- 
tion of our style, in which unworthy tendency American writers 
may fairly claim the precedence. There is a growing disregard 
of artistic grace and propriety among our scholarly oracles, 
and so deeply wrought is the affection, that university Profes- 
sors of English literature will avow with a frankness which 
borders upon eagerness, their inability to discern the aesthetic 
power of a great stylist, and their incapacity to receive the 
faintest stimulus, or inspiration, from his golden periods. A 
prosy didacticism, a monotonous moralizing that approaches per- 
ilously near to cant, is a characteristic infirmity of some emi- 
nent instructors. Far be it from me to disparage the influence 
of art viewed from the moral stand-point ; its power to educate 
and inform is one of its noblest functions. Yet this educative 
and informing power is in the ratio of the regard bestowed 
upon grace of form, harmony and symmetry. In America, 
literary form is in danger of being eclipsed by the dark wave of 
incoming democracy with its wonted disdain of all that is 
esoteric in purpose, or artistic in execution. I am aware that it 
is not impossible to exaggerate the value of literary form. This 
is admirably illustrated in one ofBAGEHOx's most suggestive 
essays, but this remote contingency is more than counteracted 
by the advance of neologism and barbarism, of syntactical 
license masquerading in the guise of liberty. 

There is a class of writers who are prone to identify clearness 
with coarseness, and fail to distinguish between the academic 
vesture of the scholar's diction and the orthodox dialect of our 
"fierce democracie." Such literary degeneracy must be 



84 HENR Y E, SHEPHERD. 

encountered in all lands in which democracy has run riot, 
education is empirical, and the dream of Bacon's * Novum 
Organum ' is almost passed into fulfillment A germ of disease 
may be always detected in language; the maturity of growth is 
the presage of decline, and there is probably no reason founded 
either in history or philosophy, why Euphuism or Marinism 
should be ascribed to foreign influences, though it may have 
been stimulated and intensified by corresponding, or kindred, 
affections in other languages. The amount of care bestowed 
upon the philological side of our speech may have aided in the 
obscuration of the art instinct If we accept the current phi- 
lological diction as a criterion, the conclusion seems indisputable. 
For the philologist, save Max Muller who is of German birth 
and training, has reversed the famous dictum and revealed his 
thoughts upon every thing bui the expression. This, however, 
is but one element in the discussion and by no means accounts 
for all the phenomena with which we have to deal. 

I am inclined to regard it as unfortunate that no critical study 
has been made of the style developed by the great school of 
novelists during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; I 
mean critical from the view-point of their impress upon the 
character of our prose. The movement towards facility and 
felicity of expression, has been essentially aided by such -chiefe 
of romantic fiction as Thackeray, Bulwer and George 
Meredith. Within the last six months, there has appeared a 
novel whose religious teachings I deplore, but whose range of 
vocabulary and skill in delineation constitute it one of the 
epoch-making books of our language. Rare terms from the 
vocabulary of psychology are employed with gracefiil ease; 
for example, Coleridge's aloofness and others drawn from the 
same recondite sources, perhap3 never before popularized by 
the novelist. Scarcely less inviting are the dramatists of the 
Restoration — the forerunners and heralds of the novel of life and 
character. The plays of Otway, Congreve, and their con- 
temporaries, are a stimulating study. It was largely through 
the agency of the drama that the stately form of classical 
English, the type of Milton and Taylor, was gradually 
broken down. It might be more scientifically accurate to say 
that the preservation of the popular standard was, in a measure, 
due to the influence of the drama in the age of Elizabeth, as 
well as during the epoch of the Restoration. 

Another field, by no means exhausted, is the development of 



STUD Y OF ENGLISH PROSE STYLE. 85 

the letter-writing art in the English language. The Memoirs of 
the era of James I and Charles I, the letters of Cromwell, 
some of them strikingly modern in expression, the Sidney 
collections ; Evelyn's voluminous correspondence ; the letters 
of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and of Pope ; those of 
Thomas Gray, George Selwyn and Cowper, are invaluable 
to the student of our prose style during the seventeenth and 
eighteenth centuries. Each of these collections is worthy of a 
special and scientific scrutiny. 

Another point to which I wish to direct the attention of my 
fellow-students, is the neglect, so prevalent in our schemes of 
instruction, of some of the noblest types of prose exhibited 
in the literature of this century. A conspicuous illustration is 
that of Sir James Stephen, the contemporary of Hallam, 
De Quincey, and Macaulay. No more chastened English 
has been produced in any age of our language than Sir James's 
essays on * Ignatius Loyola and His Associates,* * Port Royal 
and the Port Royalists,' *The Life and Times of Richard 
Baxter.' There is a grace and serenity that seems to rest upon 
the conscious foundation of majestic strength : if I were asked 
to characterize his style by an appropriate epithet, I should pro- 
nounce it the most gentiemanly I had ever met with. Yet Sir 
James is not honored with a single selection in Saintsbury's 
* English Prose,' nor is his existence referred to in Genung's 
' Rhetoric,' one of our latest and most rational treatises on that 
subject 

If the scope of this paper rendered such a procedure legiti- 
mate, I should be glad to dwell upon the richness added to our 
contemporary English by such works as Tennyson's * Princess ' 
and the * Idyls of The Kingf,' but they must be reserved for 
another occasion. The history of English prose is yet to be 
written. As one of those who are assured of the unity of that 
history, I submit the fragmentary thoughts expressed in this 
paper to the candid scrutiny of such as may have the ability and 
the disposition to carry on the task to a successful consumma- 
tion. 



VI. — HalO'Keltisches, 
Bv RICHARD OTTO, Ph. D., Munich, Bavaria. 

Niemand kann sich verhehlen, dass noch manche Jahre ver- 
gehen werden, ehe man iiber die alte Streitfrage das letzte Wort 
sprechen kann, d. h. ehe man genau weiss, was wir an den von 
Macpherson hinterlassenen selbstgeschriebenen gaelischen 
Texten eigenri'xh haben. In Deutschland ist seit vielen Jahren 
das Interesse an diesen Fragen ein sehr geringes, man trostet 
sich mit dem Buche des Talvj, * Die Unechtheit der Lieder 
OssiANS,' ohne es mit kritischen Augen zu priifen ; in England 
dagegen lebt dank diesem Streitobjecte der alte Zwist zwischen 
Kelten und Sachsen noch fort. 

Zwei Motive leiten uns bei der Abfassung dieses Aufsatzes : 
erstens die Uberzeugung, dass eine genaue Fassung der Streit- 
frage wieder einmal nothig ist, denn weitere Kreise wissen 
garnicht, wo eigentlich das Fragliche liegt, obwohl man seit 
1810, oder noch friiher, der Sache schon auf der Spur war; 
zweitens das hiervon scheinbar abliegende Unterfangen, iiber 

• ■ 

die italienische Ossian-Ubersetzung von Cesarotti einmal ein 
begriindetes Urtheil abzugeben. Wir wollen auch verrathen, 
dass das letztere Motiv das erstere erzeugt hat — was der Gang 
unserer Darstellun^j des Naheren bekunden wird. In derselben 
Zeit, da die Macpherson'schen Publicatlonen in ganz Europa 
Aufsehen machten, versuchte Giuseppe Baretti in Italien, 
den Character der damaligen engllschen Litteratur, wie sie 
namentlich Samuel Johnson repraesentirt, der Litteratur seines 
Landes mit aller Gewaltaufzupragen, jedoch ohne nachhaltigen 
Erfolg. Seine litterarische Wochenschrift La Frusta Leitera- 
ria brachte ihm wenig Geld ein und unnendlichen Verdruss ; 
die in derselben niedergelegten Urtheile sind, wie ich dem- 
nachst ausfiihrlich begriinden werde, entweder nicht neu, oder 
unrichtig, und die Geschichtsschreiber der italienischen Littera- 
tur des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts haben sich mit denselben 
langst abgefunden. Anders ist es mit dem Urtheil, das von 
Baretti in einem Briefe iiber Cesarottis * Ossian * gel'allt 
wurde ; man ist iiberall der Meinung, es hier mit einer beson- 
deren Enthiillung zu thun zu haben, der ein ganz besonderer 
Werth beizulegen ist. Besa^ter Brief ist abgedruckt in 
Barettis *Easy Phraseology,' die er London 1775 herausgab, 
p. 263-65 :— 



ITALO'KELTISCHES, 87 

Alcuni anni sono era in Venezia un abate Cesarotti, il 
quale sentendo niolto lodare 'Ossian,' probabilissimamente da 
un qualche viaggiatore scozzese, si pose in testa di tradurlo in 
italiano colla lusinga di fame de quattrini, essendo tutt'altro 
che ricco : ma il diavolo era, che non sapeva un vocabolo d' 
inglese. Per rimuovere questa difiicolt^ fece capo da un figlio 
naturale d'un nobiluomo inglese, nato in Venezia ed allevato 
nel vicinato. II signorino, abbench^ molto studioso e molto 
ingegnoso, era tuttavia troppo giovane per saper molto di 
toscano, e il suo saper d*inglese non era n^ tampoco molto 
grande. NuUadimeno parte per avvantaggiarsi nelle due lingue, 
e parte per far servizio all'abate suo amico, s'accinse a tradurre 
* Ossian ' il pid fedelmente che potette. Compiuta I'opera, il 
Cesarotti la ridusse in versi sciolti e la stamp6. L'edizione non 
si vendette troppo, non soltanto perch^ la materia del poema 
tronfia, e rumorosa faceva una misera figura in una lingua che 
aborrisce que' due caratteri, ma anco perch^ Tabate aveva 

copiosamente pilottata di venezianismi e di gallicismi 

lo era in Venezia quando la traduzione del Ce- 
sarotti si pubblicd, L'ho conosciuto personalmente, come anco 
il giovine signorino di sopra mentovato, col quale pranzai piii 
vcMte dal Residente d'Inghilterra a quella Repubblica, attual- 
mente Imbasciatore a Costantinopoli. Ho parimente avuta 
sotto I'occhio la sua traduzione, anche prima che il Cesarotti la 
riducesse in versi sciolti ; e fu appunto per dar la quadra alio 
stesso Cesarotti e alia sua traduzione, che inventai allora il voca- 
bolo versiscioltajo ; nome che soleva dargli, volendo dire un 
fabbricatore di versi sciolti \ ed ho fiducia che i nostri Accade- 
mici della Crusca non mancheranno di porre quella mia parola 
nella prossima ristampa del loro Vocabolario avendola 10 gisl 
vista adoperata da alcuni degli autori nostri. 

Danach hatten wir es mit einer so unbedeutenden Uberset- 
zung das Macpherson'schen Textes zu thun, dass ein tieferes 
Eingehen auf dieselbe weder Miihe noch Zeit lohnte, aber die 
Sache steht anders. So einseitig Barettis Ansicht iiber den 
verso sciolto ist, so einseitig ist auch dessen Urtheil iiber Ce- 
sarotti, ja, man kann sogar mit Bestimmtheit annehmen, dass 
der Hass des von Baretti stets bis in den Himmel erhobenen 
Samuel Johnson gegen Macpherson wie gegen alle Schotten 
das Urtheil des italienischen Pamphletisten beeinflusst habe. 

Der grosste Theil der Cesarottischen Ubersetzung ist in versi 
sciolti abgefasst, und dies ist vor Allem beachtenswerth. Un- 
streitig hat Macpherson einen sehr grossen Antheil an der 
Vemichtung des in der ersten Halfte des achzehnten Jahr- 
himderts uberall noch so machtigen Einflusses der franzosischen 
klassischen Richtung. In Italien hatte man seit dem Anfange 
des Jahrhunderts gegen den franzosischen Klassizismus und 



88 RICHARD OTTO. 

den Petrarkismus gewuhlt und gebohrt, leider blieb man nur 
auf dem theoretischen Gebiete dabei, und so kluge Manner wie 
Gravina und Muratori wussten in der Praxis garnichts zu 
Wege zu bringen. — Der verso sciolio war schon im sechszehn- 
ten Jahrhundert durch Trissino in der italienischen Dichtkunst 
heimisch geworden. Im achtzehnten Jahrhundert, als die 
Reaction gegen den Klassizismus sich durchbrach und, wenn 
ich die Theoretiker jener Zeit recht verstehe, man zu einem 
reineren Klassizismus sich durchringen woUte, verlangte man 
nach einer alien Anforderungen geniigenden Versform und griff 
zum reimlosen funffiissigen Iambus. Denina hat im ' Discorso 
sopra le vicende della letteratura,' die Ausgabe Venezia 1788 
liegt mir vor, den Hergang anschaulich geschildert Vgl. p. 

392 :— 

II Conte Algarotti, uomo di beH'in^egno, ma poeta poco piii 
di chi non lo 4, entr6 in una specie di cospirazione poetica, che 




impegno d mtrodurre 1 uso del verso sciolto per impedire, che 
non vi fossero piii tanti verseggiatori in Italia, perch^ la ric- 
chezza della lingua faceva la rima facile, e auesta facilidl rende 
la poesia troppo commune. II vero h che la maniera in cui il 
Conte Algarotti, 1' Abate Frugoni, ed il Padre Bettinelli Gesuita 
lavorarono i versi non rimari non era opera da tutti. Ma essi 
non ottennero il loro intento in quanto al diminuir il numero de' 
verseggiatori, anzi Taccrebbero, perch^ alia fine h assai piii facile 
il verseggiar sciolto nelle lingue modeme, che il comporre in 
rima, per molto che sia ricca la lingua. 

Algarotti, geboren 17 12, machte diese Frage zum Gegen- 

stand einer besonderen Abhandlung : "Saggio sopra la rima,'* 

die im 4. Bande seiner Werke (Cremona, 1779) zum Abdruck 

gekommen ist. Seine grosste Autoritat ist Voltaire, auch die 

englischen Aesthetiker halt er sehr hoch, von Ersterem zieht er 

folgende stelle aus der Vorrede zum * Oedipe ' heran : — 

Les Italiens et les Anglais peuvent se passer de la rime, 
parceque leur langue a des inversions, et leur po^sie mille 
libert^s qui nous manquent. Chaque langue a son g^nie 
d^termin^ par la nature de la construction de ses phrases, par 
la frequence de ses voyelles ou de ses consonnes, ses inversions, 
ses verbes auxiliaires, etc. Le g6nie de notre langue est la 
clartS et T^l^^ance, nous ne permettons nuUe licence ^ notre 
po^sie, qui doit marcher comme notre prose dans Tordre precis 
de nos id^es. Nous avons done un besoin essentiel du retour 
des m^mes sons, pour que notre po^sie ne soit pas confondue 
avec la prose. 

Auch ein Citat aus Chiabrera ist beachtenswerth : — 



ITALO'KELTISCHES, 89 

II Chiabrera asserisce, che allora solamente la nostra poesia 
eroica sarebbe giunta alia perfezion sua, ch'ella fosse trattata col 
verso sciolto, en* h il suo* proprio. Nella medesima opinione, 
egli aggiunge, ch'era venuto il Tasso dopo conosciuti per prova 
gPinconvenienti delle ottave, e della rima, ed afferma in oltre 
come gli avea detto quel gran poeta di voler scrivere un poema 
in versi sciolte, lo che nelle sette Giornate egli mand6 ad effetto 
dipoi. 

Es sind die Griinde Algarottis und seiner Gew'ahrsmanner 
alle recht matt und seicht. Man wiederholt immerfort, dass der 
Reim eine Fessel sei, deren sich die Dichter entledigen miissten ; 
als ob damit etwas Positives gesagt ware! Maffei ist der 
Einzige, der etwas den Kern der Sache trifft, wenn er an Vol- 
taire schreibt : ** II vero paragon edi un poeta pare esser 
dovessero i versi puri e spogliati dalla maschera della rima." 

Hatte man damals schon geahnt, was der Poesie nothig ist, um 
mehr zu sein, als eine Zusammensetzung rhythmischer Klange, 
so wiirde man — mit diesem man ist die gesammte italienische, 
franzosische und sonstige Schriftstellerwelt in der ersten Halfte 
des Jahrhunderts gemeint — diese wichtige Frage nicht in so 
matter Weise behandelt haben. Vom Schwulste der Petrarkis- 
ten und dem leeren Pathos der Franzosen wollte man sich 
befreien, ohne zu wissen — nur Wenige wussten es — , worin wahre 
Poesie ihr Wesen hat. Mit einem Male lernte man am Ossian 
die wahre Poesie erfassen. 

Melchior Cesarotti, der Mann, welcher Italien mit jener 
Naturpoesie bekannt machte, war 1730 in Padua geboren. Er 
studirte dort hauptsachlich unter Toaldos Leitung, ging dann 
nach Venedig, wo er langere Zeit lebte und den jungen Grafen 
Sackville kennen lernte. Letzterer machte ihn, wie oben 
bemerkt, mit Macphersons Ubersetzungen bekannt. Bald 
darauf wurde er in Padua Professor fiir griechische und 
hebniische Litteratur. — Macphersons * Ossian' machte einen 
ro'achtigen Eindnick auf den jungen Cesarotti, woriiber der 
folgende Brief an den Uebersetzer Macpherson selber ber- 
edtes Zeugniss ablegt. Vgl. * Epistolario,* Firenze 181 1, Bd. i, 

p. 35-40 :— 

Permettez, Monsieur, qu'avec toute T Italic, je vous C§licite 
sur rheureuse d^couverte que vous avez faite d*un nouveau 
monde po^tique, et sur les pr^cieux tr^sors dont vous avez 
enrichi la belle litt^rature. Vous avez de grands droits k la 
reconnoissance de votre patrie, et le public doit vous tenir 
compte de vos voyages, et de vos travaux. C'est bien autre 
chose que de nous apporter une plante sterile, ou quelque 
m£daille rouille^. Non, je ne puis revenir de mon ravissement 



90 RICHARD OTTO, 

Votre Ossian m'a tout-^-fait enthousiasni6. Morven est devenu 
mon pamasse, et Lora mon Hippocr^ne. Je r6ve toujours ^ 
vos Heros, je m'entretiens avec ces admirables enfants du 
chant ; je me prom^ne avec eux de c6teau en c6teau ; et vos 
rochers cou verts de chines touffus et de brouillard, votre ciel 
orageux, vos torrents mugissans, vos st^riles deserts, vos prairies 
qui ne sont parses que de chardons, tout ce spectacle erand et 
mome a plus de charmes ^ mes yeux que Ttle de Calypso, et 
les jardins d'Alcinous. On a dispute long temps, et peut-^tre 
avec plus d'aigreur que de bonne fois sur la preference de la 
Po^sie ancienne et moderne. Ossian, je crois, donne gain de 
cause ^ la premiere, sans que les partisans des anciens y 
gagnent beaucoup. II faut voir par son exemple, combien la 
po^sie de nature et de sentiment est au dessus oe la po^sie de 
reflection et d'esprit, qui semble ^tre partag6 des modernes. 
Mais s'il d^montre la superiority de la po^sie ancienne, il fait 
aussi sentir les^ defauts des anciens pontes mieux que tous les 
critiques. L'Ecosse nous montre un Hom^re, qui ne sommeille, 
ni ne babille, qui n'est jamais ni grossier, ni trainant, toujours 
grand toujours simple, rapide, precis, ^gal et varie. Mais il 
n'appartient pas \ moi de faire rlloge d'Ossian ^ celui qui a su 
rendre ses traits avec tant de force, et de precision, qu'on pour- 
roit le prendre pour mod^e. Je vous oirai plut6t. Monsieur, 
qu'en marchant sur vos traces, je pense aussi de transporter ces 
poesies en ma lan^ue maternelle, c'est-^-dire en vers blancs 
italiens. Non que je me flatte d'approcher des beautes inimi- 
tables de ce grand genie ; mais j'esp^re par ce moyen de me 
remplir mieux I'esprit de mon module, et de m'approprier ses 
mani^res. — So geht der Brief noch weiter. 

Durch die Prosa des Macpherson in solche grosse Entziickung 
zu gerathen, zeugt von wirklicher dichterischer Begabung, und 
zwar von einer anders gearteten Begabung, als sie zum Beispiel 
die Sonettischen iiberhaupt die gesammten Arcadier jener Zeit 
hatten. Doch in der ersten Halfte des achtzehten Jahrhunderts 
ist Cesarotti nicht der einzige Italiener, der so zu fiihlen 
vermag. Eines der wenigen Zeugnisse hierfiir ist ein 1707 von 
Biagio-Garofalo herausgegebenes Buch : * Considerazioni 
intomo alia Poesia degli Ebrei dei Greci/ Es heisst daselbst 
p. 4, dass die Idee der Poesie nicht, wie so viele geglaubt haben, 
darin liege, dass man Erdichtetes unter dem Scheine des 
Wahren darstelle, auch nicht im Klange und der Harmonic der 
Verse, sondern in der wahren Weisheit, das heisst in dem tiefen 
Erfassen der gottlichen und menschlichen Dinge. Auf einer 
solchen Hohe der Auffassung hat auch Cesarotti nicht einmal 
gestanden. 

Dass Cesarotti, wie Baretti meint, bei der Ubersetzung 
den Geldgewinn zunachst im Auge gehabt habe, kann man 



'ITALO-KELTISCHES, 91 

nicht von der Hand weisen. Er war arm, er iibersetzte auch 
Tragodien von Voltaire in das Italienische, er musste 
glauben, mit seiner Ossianiibersetzung cin besonderes Geschaft 
zu machen, denn Ubersetzungen aller nur ir^end bemerkenswer- 
then englischen Litteraturwerke waren zu jener Zeit begehrt. 
Noch 1768-9 gab sich Cesarottis Freund van Goens, Profes- 
sor des Griechischen in Leyden, alle Miihe, Exemplare seiner 
Ossian-Ubersetzung zu Gelde zu machen. (Vgl. * Epistolario ' 
1, 148 u. ff.) Doch sein Interesse und sein Geschmack am Ossian 
wuchs noch mit der Zeit, er verbesserte seine Ubersetzung 
immer mehr, kurzum, sie wurde sein Lieblingswerk. In diesem 
Sinne schrieb er 1767 an van Goens (* Epist.' 1,81) : — A questo 

libricciuolo aggiungo la traduzione delle Poesie del gran Bardo 
Caledonia. Confesso che quest Opera mi cost6 molta inten- 
sione di spirito, e che ho qualche tenerezza per essa. La tra- 
duzione delle tragedie di Voltaire non e che una cosa fatta per 
passatempo in et^ assai giovenile, n^ io Tho pubblicata che in 
grazia, dei Ragionamenti, e per far un atto d'ommag^io a guel 
Genio della Francia coll'occasione che il nostro Goldoni s'avviava 
col^. Quella di Ossian e un opera di tutt altro lavoro. Ne 
attendo da voi un libero e sincero giudizio — si della Traduzione 
che 'delle Osservazioni ; le quali tra noi hanno fatto andar in 
furore tutti i fanatici partegiani d'Omero. 

Van Goens war Cesarotti sehr congenial, er bestarkte ihn 

auch in seiner Bewunderung der Schonheiten des * Ossian.' So 

schrieb ersterer noch 1769 an ihn (* Epist* i, 156-7): Fingal est 
un po^me 6pique aussi bien que I'lliade. Les regies m^mes 
qu*Aristote a donn6es dans ce genre, on les trouve exactement 
observ6es par le Barde Ecossais. J 'en conviens; mais qu'en 
suit-il ? qu'on doit chercher un rapport continu entre ces deux 
g6nies? Je ne le crois pas. Aristote tiroit ses regies de I'lliade. 
Ces memes rft^les Ossian les observes. Mais Ossian les avoit 
tir6es Tune et I'autre de la Nature. Le seul rapport qui reste 
entr* eux est done celui, qu*ils sont Tun et I'autre 61^ve ch^ris 
de la Nature. 

Hier haben wir den wahren Standpunkt der neueren Poesie 
angegeben! Die Natur ist unfehlbar, Aristoteles nicht. — 
Nun muss noch eine Stelle aus eineni Briefe Cesarottis an 
einen Unbekannten angefuhrt werden, um den Standpunkt des 

tjbersetzers so recht zu kennzeichnen. Vgl. * Epist.' iv, 47 : Pro- 
fesseur de litt^rature grecque il me fallut travailler sur les 
auteurs de cette nation ; et de plus presque tons mes ouvrages 
de prose et de vers ne furent que commandos. II n'y a 
qu'Ossian dont j'ai entrepris la traduction par un mouvement 
spontan^. Mais enfin ce n'est qu'une traduction, et s'il y a 
quelque chose d'original, cela ne regarde que le style. Quelque 



92 RICHARD OTTO, 

droit plus solide ^ Tori^nalit^ pourroit me donner, j'ose m'en 
flatter, mon Hom^re, tel en particulier qu'on T a publi6 a Venise 
avec le titre de Tlliade ou la mort d' Hector. Ce n'est pas 
une traduction ni une imitation, mais on peut Tappeler une 
r6forme et j)resque une r6g6n6ration de Tlliade. 

Wir werden nachher sehen, dass Cesarotti sich selber sehr 
richtig beurtheilt hat; seine Ubersetzung von Macphersons 
* Ossian ' ist eine wahre Ubersetzung, sie giebt Alles Wort fiir 
Wort wieder und bedient sich dabei der edelsten und poetisch- 
sten Ausdriicke. Freie Uinschreibungen sind verhaltnissmassig 
ebenso selten, wie willkiirliche Anderungen, wovon wir des 
Naheren weiter unten sprechen miissen. 

Cesarotti war sich voUauf bewusst, dass die Veroffent- 
lichung seines Ossian den Anstoss zu einer gewaltigen Reform 
in der italienischen Litteratur geben konne. Man hatte seit 
Anfang des Jahrhunderts gegen den leeren Formalismus in der 
Poesie geeifert, man freute sich, den Marinismus, von dem 
Jedermann mit Geringschatzung sprach, iiberwunden zu haben» 
aber wohin war man gekommen, wie weit hatte man es gebracht ? 
— Die Poesie war und blieb unter der Herrschaft der Arkadia 
zu Rom ein leerer Formalismus, eine Spielerei fur Leute, die viel 
Zeit und einiges Geld iibrig hatten. Jeder Geistliche, jeder 
Universitatsprofessor und sehr viele niedere und hohere Adlige 
hielten es xUr unumganglich nothwendig, einmal oder ofter mit 
einem Bande mehr oder weniger nichtssagender Gedichte vor 
die Oeflentlichkeit zu treten; dazu kam die Schaar der 
Schmeichler und Kriecher, die die Feste der Grossen mit 
ihren zopfigen Dithyramben verherrlichten. Cesarotti* 
Alfieri und Parini waren es, die der Poesie neuen Inhalt 
gaben, wenn auch jeder in anderer Art. Cesarotti lenkte 
die Augen seiner Landsleute wieder auf die wahre Natur, 
Alfieri zeigte ihnen in seinen Dramen die idealen Ziele des 
Menschendaseins, Parini gab das Muster eines gut geschulten 
und von wahrer Sitdichkeit getragenen Dichters. 

Cesarotti und Alfieris litterarische Beziehungen sind 
interessant und lehrreich fiir uns, doch kann hier nicht auf 
Einzelheiten eingegangen werden. Alfieri gab 1785 dem 
Cesarotti seine Tragodien zum Kritisiren. Er erfiillte diese 
Bitte in einem langen, ausfiihrlichen und streng sachlich gehal- 
tenen Briefe, worin mancherlei Verbesserungsvorschlage in 
Bezug auf die Tragodien enthalten sind. Alfieri erwiederte 
auf Alles sachlich und sehr respectsvoll, nur nicht auf einen 
kleinen Satz, dass namlich die Sprache seiner Tragodien nicht 



ITALO'KEL TISCHES. 



93 



natiirlich genug sei, welcher Vorwurf fiir beide Parteien hochst 

characteristisch ist. DieAntwort (*Epist/ ii, 251) Alfieris 

ist zwar sehr hoflich, aber doch scharf gehalten. Er sagt, die 

Sprache seiner Helden konne nicht die alltagliche Redeweise 

sein (was auch Cesarotti auf keinen Fall gemeint haben 

kann), die Erfahrung habe andererseits gelehrt dass seine 

Verse stets ihre beste Wirkung gethan batten, mithin er in 

Cesarottis Sinne Nichts andern konne. Man gewinnt den 

untriiglichen Eindruck, dass Cesarotti in dieser Frage einen 

hoheren Standpunkt inne hatte, als Alfieri. 

Cesarottis Ossian-Ubersetzung erschien in folgenden Aus- 

gaben: Zuerst Padua 1763, 8°, 2 Bde. ; nahezu alle Stiicke sind 

darin, die Macpherson bis 1762 hatte erscheinen lassen ; vor 

Allem also der Fingal. 1772 erschien die zweite vervollstan- 

digte, vielfach auch verbesserte Auflage gleichfalls in Padua in 

4 Octavbanden. Die Anmerkungen, die die erste Auflage 

enthielt, waren in der zweiten fortgefallen. 1780 kam eine 

Ausgabe in Nizza in 3 Banden 12° heraus, die aber recht 

ungenau sein soil, was auch von einer spateren Bassanoer 

Ausgabe gilt, die auf dieselbe zuriickgeht Die dann folgende 

Ausgabe war die in der Gesammtausgabe von Cesarottis 

Werken, Florenz 1807 in 4 Banden. Fiir die Entstehungs- 

geschichte derselben ist folgende Stelle aus einem Briefe wichtig, 

den Cesarotti im Juli 1798 schrieb (*Epist.' iv. 27) : lo intanto 
rivedo di nuovo tutte le Poesie di Ossian, ritoccando qualche 
luogo ; e aggiungendoci varie noterelle che fanno sentir 1 indus- 
tria del traduttore nel maneggiar un testo spesso intrattabile. 
A perfezionar I'edizione di Ossian avrei gran bisogno di avere 
non solo la traduzione Francese del le Tourneur, ma inoltre, 
I'altra opera contenente i poemi d'altri Bardi e di Ossian medes- 
imo pubblicati dallo Smith in Inglese,' e tradotti poscia in 
Francese. estampati in Parigi nel 1795 in 3 tomi in 18°. Se 
credete che il Molini possa procurarmeli subito, raccomandategli 
caldamente di farli venire colla maggior sollecitudine. 

Aus beiden Biichern scheint Cesarotti viel gelernt zu haben, 

besonders aber aus der Ubersetzung von Le Tourneur, denn die 

Anmerkungen, worin er seinen Text mit dem des Macpherson 

kritisch vergleicht, sind erst nach Lectiire dieses Buches ver- 

fasst. Die Uebersetzung, wie sie nun in letzer Bearbeitung 

vorliegt, ist, wie schon erwahnt, durchweg eine wordiche zu 

nennen, sie zeugt von gutem Verstandnisse und liebevollen 

Eindringen in das englische Original, zu welchem Cesarotti 

zudem ein grenzenloses Vertrauen hatte. Die Kiirze und 

X. Smitb, 'Scana DIUia,' Ancient Lays, 1787, 80. 



94 RICH4RD OTTO, 

Einfachheit des Maq>herson'schen Satzbaues, das Fehlen der 
verbindenden Conjunctionen, das Vermeiden aller Nebensatze 
und Perioden findetsich bei Cesarotti, allerdings gewinnt 
seine Sprache durch diese Eigenthiimlichkeit garnicht. Die 
glatt und sicher dahingleitende Rede Parinis steht himmelhoch 
liber dem zerhackten und niemals fiiessenden Italienisch des 
Cesarotti. Und grade in das von ihm gew'ahlte Versmass, 
den fiinAiissigen Iambus, passte diese Sprache am wenigsten. 
Cesarotti hatte bei seinen Talenten, bei seiner Liebe und 
Hingebung fur die Aufgabe ein Meisterwerk bester Art geschaf- 
fen, wenn er es iiber das Herz gebracht hatte, auf Grund eines 
intuitiven Eindringens in die Schilderungen und Erzahlungen 
Ossians, von der zerbrockelten Redeweise des englischen Tex- 
tes sich emancipirend, in freier Wiedergabe aller Bilder und 
des genauen Sinnes der Vorlage, auch bei dem so anziehenden 
nebelhaften Colorit ruhig verharrend, eine frei dahin fliessende 
und nirgends durch unniitze Puncte und neue Satzanfange in 
ihrer Melodie so oft gestorte Sprache zu ver\^'enden. Man 
betrachte den Anfang des Fingal : — 

Di Tura accanto alia muraglia assise, 
Sotto una pianta di fischiante foglie 
Stavasi Cucullin ; li presso, al balzo 
Posava Tasta ; appi^ giacea lo scudo. 
Membrava ei col pensiero il pro Cairba 
Da lui spento in battaglia, allor che ad esso 
L'esplorator deiroce^n s*en venne, 
Moran figlio di Fiti. Alzati, ei disse, 
Alzati Cucullin : gi^ di Svarano 
Veggo le navi ; e numerosa I'oste, 
Molti i figli del mar. Tu semprc tremi, 
Figlio di Fiti, a lui rispose il duce 
Acchiazzurro d'Erina, e la tua tema 
Agli occhi tuoi moltiplica i nemici. 
Fia forse il re de'solitarj colli, 
Che a soccorrer mi vien. No, no, diss'egli, 
Vidi il lor duce ; al luccicar dell'arme. 
Alia quadrata torreggiante mole 
Parea massa di ghiaccio : asta ei solleva 
Pari a quel pin che folgore passando 
Disfrondato lascio : nascente luna sembra 
II suo scudo 

Bei emer solchen genauen Ubersetzung kann man liber 
poetische Schonheiten oder astetische Mangel niit Cesarotti 
wenig rechten. Aber es sind gewisse Stellen im englischen 
Originale, die Cesarotti nicht so wie sie sind ubersetzen 



ITALO'KEL TISCHES. 



95 



durfte und konnte, weil sie handgreifliche Unrichtigkeiten dem 
Sinne nach und recht auflfallende poetische Fehlgriffe aufweisen, 
Diese Bemerkung hat bisher jedermann gemacht, der den Text 
Macphersons genauer gespriift hat, besonders solche Gelehrte, 
die den galischen Text dabei vergleichen konnten. Von den 
Uebersetzern geht in dieser Beziehung Cesarotti am Ver- 
standigsten vor, Le Tourneur steht ihm nach. 

Ahlwardt hat in Deutschland den englischen Text einer 
ebenso scharfen wie sachgemassen Kritik unterzogen. Er that 
dies in der 1807 publicirten Probe einer Ubersetzung des gali- 
schen Originals wie auch in verschiedenen Zeitschriften 
i^Teuischer Merkur 1810 und Pantheon 1810) bei Gelegenheit 
der Anzeige seiner deutschen Ubersetzung. Um dem Leser 
einen Einblick zu geben in die Art und Weise, wie Ahlwardt 
mit dem Texte Macphersons verfuhr, gebe ich hier einen 
Theil seiner Kritik wieder, wie er sie im Neuen Teutschen 
Merkur, Fiinftes Stiick 1810, p. 46-64 veroffentlichte. Fingal i, 
103, (in der Uebers. Ahlwardts). 

Heil ihnen, den Jagern des Rothwilds ! 

Uns erhebt sich ein anderes Spiel, 

Der Feind ist am Busen des Meeres 

Umlenkend in Eile den Strand. 

Wird Kampf uns mit Lochlins Erzeugten ? 

Wird Eirinn gegeben dem Feind ? 

Die Verse 105,6 des Originals, die zur Deudichkeit des 
Ganzen unentbehrlich sind, I'asst Macpherson aus, und giebt 
uns dafur einen Vers vol! Schwulst, der den Zusammenhang 
zerreisst. 

Vers 120 : Sie Suarans Flotte, sie steiget, 

Steigt am Saum des Gestades empor, 
Wie Waldung am Lego der Helden. 
Abwechselnd sich beugend im Winde. 

Den 121. Vers lasst Macpherson weg, aus dem waldum- 
kianzten Lego, s. Tighmora 7, i, macht er einen See voller 
Schilf und Binsen, macht aus einem Walde Walder, und hiillt 
diese in Nebel ein, den man im Original vergebens sucht. 

Vers 258: Und sehr lange wirst barren du, Muime, 
Deinem Geliebten den Stein 
Setz ich, Tochter von Cormac ! 

Macpherson' : Long shall Moma wait. He fell by the stream of 
Branno! 



s Ahlwardt Mngt alle Stellen deutsch. 



96 RICHARD OTTO. 

Der letze Vers ist ein Zusatz von Macpherson. Hier ist 
Branno bei Macpherson ein Strom, und V. 224 ist er bei ihm 
ein felsigtes Gebirg. Von Inconsequenzen der Art wimmelt es 
bei Macpherson. Die Ubersetzer gehen stumm voriiber, und 
vermehren z. B. bei V. 224 den Unsinn durch allerlei seltsame 
Dollmetschungen. 

Vers 275: Hinsinkend am machtigen Strom. 
Streckt er aus die Hand und rief : 

Macpherson : He fell, like the bank of a mountain-stream, and 
stretching forth his hand, he spoke : 

Den ersten Vers hat Macpherson durch Bombast ganzlich 
enstellt. Im Original V. 215 heisst es: 

Dir murmelt ein Strom zur Seite. 

An diesen Strome wird Dubhchomar von Muirne durchbohrt, 
und sinkt nieder. Dies ist Macpherson viel zu einfach und 
matt; er lasst ihn also niederplumpen wie das Ufer eines 
Bergstromes. Doch der grosste Unsinn, von dem es unbe- 
greiflich ist, dass keiner der Ubersetzer ihn bemerkt hat, folgt 
bald nachher V. 288. Der an der todlichen Wunde niederge- 
sunkene Dubhchomar will sich rachen. Er bittet seine Morderin, 
ihm den Stahl aus der Seite zu ziehen. Sie nahert sich ihm 
unter Thr'anen. Wie sie ihm nahe genug ist, packt er sie, zieht 
mit Anstrengung seiner letzen Krafte das Eisen sich aus der 
Seite und stosst es Muirne in die Brust. Dies hat Macpherson 
auf das schanslichste so geandert und verzerrt : 

She came, in all her tears, she came ; 
She drew the sword from his breast. 
He pierced her white side ! 
He spread her fair locks on the ground ! 

Diese Proben mogen geniigen, um zu zeigen, wie man in 
kritischer Weise mit dem Macpherson'schen Texte umzugehen 
hat und wie man mit ihm verfahren muss, wenn man ihn richtig 
wiirdigen will. Man miisste Zeile fiir Zeile mit dem Galischen 
vergleichen und wUrde dann finden, dass in tausenden von 
Fallen Macpherson unverstandlich oder platt und unpoetisch 
ist, wo dagegen das Galische ungehobene Schatze von poetischen 
Schonheiten uns darbietet. Es werden Uebersetzer von Ahl- 
WARDT dafiir getadelt, dass sie jedes wort des englischenTextes 
kritiklos hingenommen hatten,dabei die dunkeln Stellen dessel- 
ben (Ahlwardt driickt sich scharfer aus) durch ihre Interprcta- 
tionen noch widersinniger gemacht batten. Cesarotti ist von 



ITALO-KEL TISCHES, 97 

diesem Tadel entschieden auszunehmen. Allerdings war fiir ihn 
Macphersons Text das Original, allerdings stellte er ihn bei 
seiner Uebersetzung ebenso hoch, wie den Homertext bei seiner 
Homeriibersetzung. Nie kam er so recht eigentlich auf den 
Gedanken, dass er selbst doch erst nach einer Ubersetzung 
iibersetzte. Was in der englischen Ubersetzung stand, war und 
blieb fiir ihn immer altcaledonische Eigenthiimlichkeit, woriiber 
er noch dazu seine Leser des Langen und Breiten unterhielt, 
wahrend es haufig nur sprachliche Eigenthiimlichkeiten Mac- 
phersons sind. Nur da, wo die Ungenauigkeit des Aus- 
druckes und die Sinnlosigkeit in der Darstellung zu arg wurde, 
wich er von seinem Originale ab und suchte diese seine Ab- 
weichungen durch Noten unter dem Texte zu rechtfertigen. 
In diesem Sinne ist eine genaue kritische Vergleichung des 
italienischen Textes mit dem englischen doppelt lehrreich. Nur 
sie allein ist im Stande, uns zu zeigen, wieweit Cesarotti dabei 
kiinstlerisch und in wiefem er — ^was noch wichtiger ist — mit 
kritischem Verstandnisse verfuhr, oder nicht. Sie bietet uns 
dabei noch Aussicht auf ein zweites Resultat. Man muss 
namlich, um im Stande zu sein, die Dunkelheiten und Wider- 
sinnigkeiten Macphersons auf ihren wahren Sinn zu ergriin- 
den, zum galischen Texte seine Zuflucht nehmen, und da kommt 
man zu interessanten Ergebnissen, zu Ergebnissen, die obwohl 
nicht in ihrer Art neu, obwohl auch vereinzelten Keltologen 
heutzutage nich unbekannt, dennoch vom grosseren gelehrten 
Publicum nicht mehr gewusst werden, die weil sie auf die 
Ossianfrage hochst wichtiges Licht werfen, alien den Gelehrten, 
die dariiber ihre Urtheile aussprechen, aufs Neue vor die Seele 
gef iihrt werden miissen. 

Eine weniger wesentliche Bemerkung sei noch vorausge- 
schickt. Cesarotti ging mit den Eigennamen so frei um, wie 
es die Italiener von je her gewohnt sind. Ein deutscher Uber- 
setzer, wie Ahlwardt, l^lt es fiir nothig, nicht nur die galische 
Orthographie in seinem deutschen Texte richtig beizubehalten, 
sondern auch vom den Leser in einem besonderen Tractate 
liber die Aussprache derselben genau zu unterrichten. Cesa- 
rotti handelt grade in entgegengesetzter Richtung. Fingallo, 
Soarano, CucuUino, Conalio, Fiti, Inisfela, Bresilla, etc., etc., 
»nd die wohlklingenden Namen seiner Obersetzung, wobei es 
ihn wenig schmertz, wenn sie im Englischen anders lauten und 
im Galischen ganz anders. 

Die folgenden Citate sind der oben schon erw'ahnten Ge- 



98 RICHARD OTTO, 

sammtausgabe der Werke Cesarottis, worin die Ossian- 
Uebersetzung den ii, iii, iv, v Band ausmacht, die Florenz 1807 
erschienen sind, entnommen. 

Im Fingal heisst es Cesarotti Bd. ii, p. 85 : 

Ii presso, al balzo 
Posava I'asta; 

Macpherson: His spear leaned against a rock — 

Hier ist offenbar ein Versehen. Rock hatte durch baha wie- 
dergegeben werden miissen, alia balza ware auch leicht in das 
Metrum zu schieben. Derartige offenbare Versehen sind aus- 
serst selten. 

p. 86 : blue-eyed=Occhiazzurro. 

Dazu eine Anmerkung : 

NeH'originale (d. h. bei Macpherson, sono frequenti le parole 
composle. II tradullore non ha trascurato questa energica bel- 
lezza di cui la lingua italiana e suscettibile (?); ma nel tempo 
istesso procur6 di sfuggir la durezza, e la stravaganza della 
composizione. 

Vgl. dazu DiEz' Gr. ii* p. 414 u. 415. Derartige Verbindun- 
gen sind ausserst selten im Italienischen, und es muss Cesa- 
rotti entgegengehalten werden, dass Neubildungen solcher Art 
schwerlich erlaubt sind. Cesarotti giebt uns auch selber 
stillschweigend Recht, wenn er gleich auf der nachsten Seite 
the blue -eyed chief iibersetzt mit // dtice ceruleo sguardo und p. 
91 fUr dieselbe Wortverbindung ccchicerulio sagt. Man sieht, 
wie es mit dem Wiedergeben solcher unitalienischer Ausdriicke 
seine Schwierigkeiten hat. 

p. 86 ; Parea massa di ghiaccio— 

Macpherson : Tall as a glittering rock. 

Anmerkung: NeH'originale non vi sono che queste parole : alio 
come una rupe di ghiaccio. Si h cercato di sviluppar il senso 
di questa expressione, come si fece in altri luoghi, avendo per6 
sempre cura di non pregiudicare airenergia e vivacity della 
locuzione caratteristica del nostro autore. 

Heisst denn Uberhaupt glittering rock, rupe di ghiaccio"^ 
Unmoglich ! Das galische Original hat 
I, 19: Coimeas do'n charraig an triath — 
Ahnlich wie ein fels (od. auch Grabstein) ist der Fiirst. 

ib. p. 86 : Egli sedea sul lido 

Sopra uno scoglio, annubilato in volto, 
Come nebbia sul colle. 

Macpherson : He sat on the shore, like a cloud of mist on the 
silent hi]] ! 



ITALO-KELTISCHES, 99 

Anmerkung: Iltestoha: simile anuvola di nebbia sul coUe. 
Non h sempre facile scorger il rapporto di questi modi compar- 
ativi assai spesso vaghe e confusi. To cerco di fissarne il senso 
possibilmente. La rupe di ghiaccio rappresentava la statura ; 
no creduto che la nuvola di nebbia non possa riferirsi che al 
volto. 

Das isl ein grosser Unsinn. Der Eisberg der iibrigens nur in 
Cesarottis Phantasie existirt, der in Wirklichkeit (s. o.) ein 
Felsblock oder ein Grabstein ist, ist langst vergessen, auf 
keinen Fall steht er mil diesem Bilde im Zusammenhang. 
Solcherlei tiefe Beziehungen liegen auch garnicht in Macpher- 
SONS Absicht, auch in diesem Falle deutet er so etwas garnicht 
an, der galische Text hingegen belehrt uns vom Gegentheil. 

I, 22 : Shuidh e air carraig's an thrhigh 
Mar en ceb'tha thall air a'bheinn, 

Er sass auf einem Pels bei der Kiiste. 

Wie der Nebel dort druben auf dem Berge (sitzt). 

p. 87 : Tre di pugnammo, e ripugnammo ; i duci 
Stetter da lungi, ^ ne tremor. 

Macpherson : Three days we renewed the strife ; heroes stood at 
a distance and trembled. 

Heroes mit duci wiederzugeben, ist eine Ungenauigkeit, die 
aber nicht besonders geriigt werden soil. 

p. 89 : a noi ben altra 

Caccia s*appresta, romorosa, forte 
Come quelPonda che la spiaggia or fere. 

Macpherson : Another sport is drawing near : it is like the dark 
rolling of that wave on the coast. 

Anmerkung : Questo tratto serve all'evidenza del momento. 
Ma la forza e il ribombo d'un onda puo mai paragonarsi al 
romore d'una battaglia ? 

Cesarotti hat mit dieser Anmerkung einen feinen poeti- 

schen Sinn bewiesen. Das Bild war nach seiner Empfindung 

unpassend, und wir sehen aus dem Galischen, das es eine un- 

geschickte Erfindung Macphersons ist. Es heisst im Original • 

I, 105 : Tha nittnhaid mn chromadh aWhuain 
Ag iadhiadh gu luath mu'n tritigh, 

Der Feind ist in der Meeresbucht 
Hurtig sich windend urn das Gestade. 

Die ganze MeUpher mit der Welle fehlt demnach. Diejeni- 
gen der Leser, welche glauben, das galische Original sei von 
Macpherson erst auf'Grund des EngV\scV\etv gem2Lc\vX,\A\X& v^ 



lOO RICHARD OTTO. 

jetzt schon, sich die Frage vorzulegen, wanim denn das GUl- 

ische viel sachgem'asser lautet, als das Englische ? 

p. 94: E donde vieni? rinterruppe allora 

La donzelletta dalle bianche braccia. 

Macpherson : From whence, the fair-haired maid replied. 

Weshalb diese willkiirliche Aenderung ? dalle blonde ireccie 
wurde sehr gut in den Vers gepasst haben und die Italiener 
waren von diesem Bilde entziickt gewesen. — Schon vorher ist 
auf der namlichen Seite Cesarotti in der Ausmalung weib- 
licher Reize von dem englischen* Originale in geschmackloser 
und iiberfliissiger Weise abgewichen. 

Sembran le mamme 
Due liscie, tonde, luccicante pietre 
Che spuntano dal brano. 

Macpherson schreibt: Thy breast are two smooth rocks seen 
from Branno of streams. 

p. 95 : io amo 

II sangue di Catbar. 

Macpherson : I love the wandering blood of Cathba. 

Wandering muss Cesarotti iiberflUssig erschienen sein; 
auch dem Veriasser der g'alischen Texte erschien es so. 

*Sannsa dhomh Cathbaid* us* /huil 

Theuer ist mir Cabad und sein Blut. 

Auf welcher Seite liegt nun der schonere Ausdruck ? 

P* 95~9^ • Venne ptangendo ; 

Trassegli il brando : si col pugnal di furto 
Trafisse il bianco lato e sparse a terra 
La bella chioma. 

Macpherson : She came, in all her tears, she came ; she dreiy the 
sword from his breast. He pierced her white side. 

Anmerkung: II testo ha solo: egli le trapassd it bianco taio 
colVacciaro, Ma di qual acciaro si parla ? (Moma hat ihm 
getodtet, er hat das Schwert in der Seite, liegt so am Boden 
und todtet sie wieder.) Parmi che questo non possa aver altro 
senso che quello che gi^ si h dato da me. L'awerbio di furto 
^giunto, rende il fatto un pK>' piii credibile. All'incontro il Le 
Toumeur colla sua traduzione lo rende ancor piCl difficile a 
concepirsi: Elle retire r6p6e du sein du guerrier: Ducomar 
en tourne la pointe sur elle, et perce son beau sein. 

Nach Macpherson ist das Ganze allerdings recht unver- 
sisndlich. Der franzosische Uebersetzer hat aber das Richtige 



ITALO'KEL TISCHES. loi 

f^efiihlt Er hat zu Morna gesagt, komm, ziehe mir das Schwert 
aus der Seite ; dann hat er es, als sie sich ihm naherte, schnell 
selbst herausgezogen und es der iiber ihn sich biickenden in die 
Brust gestossen. So ist die Situation. — Vergleichen wir das 
Galische. 

I, 287 : Th^nig i gu deurach mall, 

O^thaobh a tharruing an lann, 
Reubadh lets a broilleach bUn, 

Sie naherte sich ihm langsatn unter Thranen, 
Aus der Seite ziehend das Schwert 
Zerfleischte er ihre schneeweisse Brust. 

Unbegreiflich ist, wie Clerk, ' Poems of Ossian,' vol. i, Edinb. 
u. London 1870, p. 377 iibersetzten kann: 

Tearful and slowly she drew nigh 
To draw the blade from his side. 

Wir haben hier um einer ein&chen Sache willen viel Raum 
verwenden miissen. Aus Allem folgt, dass Macpherson 
schlecht ubersetzt hat. Das Schwert steckt bei Ossian immer 
in der Seite. Vgl. Cath-Loduinn ii, 131, Tharruing e*n iuihaid 
o ihaobh ; u. o. Hierbei sei erwahnt, dass Cesarotti, p. 98, 
bekennt, einen Rathgeber bei der Erklarung mancher dunkeler 
Stellen gehabt zu haben in der Person des signer Domenico 
Trani^ doiiissimo e geniilissimo cavaliere irlandese. Wer ist 
dies? 

p. 99 : II forte Cucullin, prole di Semo, 
Re delle conche — 

Macphrrson : The hero's name is Cuthullin, son of Semo, king 
of shells. 

Cesarotti erklart den letzteren Ausdruck in einer Anmer- 
kung : S'^ gi^ detto che gli Scozzesi ne'loro conviti usavano 
di ber nelle conche, come pure lo usano i montanari ai giomi 
nostri. Perci6 il termine di conche in queste poesie si usa 
spesso in cambio di convito. Re delle conche significa re dei 
conviti, cio^ re ospitale e cortese. 

x> 385 *• Cuchullin nan gorm-bhallach sgiafh, 
Mac Sheutna, tnu-n Hreadh dhn. 

CucuUin der blaugefleckten Schilde, 

Der Sohn Sheumas, den der Gesang erhebt. 

Das Gerundium Hreadh von eirich, sich erheben, gr. aiptiv^ 



I02 RICHARD OTTO. 

ist hier ausserst poetisch angebracht ; im englischen Texte wird 
man kaum eine so poetische Ausdrucksweise finden. 

Wo stecken nun aber die shells}^ Man wird fast zu der 
Mudimassung gezwungen, das Macpherson das Wort ddn 
nicht verstanden habe. Der Leser wird im Folgenden einige 
Bestatigungen daiiir finden. 

p. 103 : E chi questi mai, fuorch^ il possente 
Figlio deirocelino, e il nato al carro 
D'Erina correttor. 

Macpherson : Who is it but Ocean's son and the car-boni^ chief of 
Erin? 

Anmerkung : La voce car-born deH'originale pu6 significare 
ugualmente poriato sul carOy e nato al carro, Quantunque il 
primo significato sembri il pid naturale e il pii semplice, il 
traduttore s'^ attenuto al secondo ch'^ pid poetico, e infondo vale 
lo stesso: specialmente che si trova spesso in queste poesie 
Jigito del carro usato nel medesimo senso. Cosi nato al carro 
e quanto a dire fra noi nato al soglio, 

I, 498 : Co Uh *ann ach stiaran nan long^ 

^S triath Eirinn mu-n Hreadh ddinf 

VVer sind sie als Swaren der SchifTe 

Und der Fiirst von Eirinn sangerberiihmt. 

Also auch hier ist ddfi falsch iibersetzt. 
p. 104: Allor d'Erina 

11 generoso duce il suo leggiadro 
Spirito ripigli6 : 

Macpherson : Cuthullin, chief of Erin's war, resumed his mighty 
soul : 

Anmerkung : Le parole del testo sono : CuculHno, duce 
delta gucrra d'' Erina.y ripigli6 la sua possente anima. Da cio 
che segue ^ visbile che il senso non pu6 esser che questo : che 
quel duce tornd alia sua naturale generosity. Se cosi, I'aggiunto 
di possente non h il pid proprio, o certo non il piii chiaro. II 
termine di leggiadro quadra assai meglio avendo presso i buoni 
scrittori un senso niisto di gentilezza e nobilit^ d animo quality 
caratteristiche di questo eroe. Del resto, il traduttor francese 
non colse nel segno quando tradusse : Cucullin recueillit sa 
sa grande dvie. 



3. Vgl. Fingal II, 334, 'S do thigh grinn ^n sligt chhbraidh. 

Und dein Schemes Haiis ohne die duftende SchUssel. 
Macpherson : The hall of shells is silent. 
Desgl. Fingal iii, 69; Shnlich iii, 144. 



ITAL OKEL TISCHES. 103 

Vgl. I, 513: *N sin thuirt ceann-uidhe na feile^ 

Triath Eirinn an anam mhbir — 
Dann sprach der freundliche Mahl-Spender 
Der Fiirst von Eirinn, der Grosse an Scele — 

Wie elend mtiht sich Cesarotti ab, wo doch hier AUes so 
klar bt 

Canto ii, p. 11 1 : Entro la calma 

Del suo riposo, egli spiccar dal monte 
Vide di foco un roseggiante rivo. 
Per queirardente luminosa riga 
A lui scese Crugallo, uno dei duci — 

Macpherson : The hero beheld, in his rest, a dark-red stream of 
lire rushing down from the hill. Crugal sat upon the beam, a chief 
who fell in fight. 

Es ist zwar bei einem Geiste nicht unmoglich, dass er auf 
einem Lichtstrahle reitet, aber schon ist ein solches Bild nicht. 
Cesarotti hat die Hasslichkeit des Bildes ein wenig gemildert. 

ii. 9 : Chunnaic an gaisgeach^n a shuain 

Srnth caoirtheach o chruaich nam beann ; 
Shuidh Crhthgeai air dearrsa gu^chhl, 
Saoi a thuit le cliu's d*ghleann, 

Es erblicktc der Held im Schlafe 

Einen flammenden Strom vom Abhang des Gebirges ; 

Es sass Cruthgeal in Helle durch und durch, 

Ein Held der glorreich im Thale gefallan. 

Auch hier ist das Rathsel sofort durch das Heranziehen des 
Galischen gelost. 

p. 113 : Trofeo di gloria alle futuri etadi 
Sorgera la mia tomba : 

Macpherson : If fall I must, my tomb shall rise, amidst the fame 
of future times. 

Wir wollen gleich verrathen, dass auch hier wieder das Wort 
ddn fiir Macpherson ein gewaltiger Stein des Anstoses 
gewesen sein muss. Man beachte das Galische : 

ii, 98 : Ma's/heudar tuiteam iiridh m*uaig/i, 
Aig iomairt nan stuadh^fo dhhnaibh. 

Wenn ich fallen muss, wird errichtet mein Grabhiigcl 
Neben dem Kampfgewiihl der Wellen mit Gesang. 

Warum hat nun Macpherson dieses schone Gemalde nur 
im galischen Text ? 



104 



RICHARD OTTO, 



p. X15: Maestoso e g:ran(le 

A par del cervo de'morvenii boschi 
Svaran avanza — 

Macpherson : Tall as the stag of Morven, moved stately before 
them the king. 

Anmerkung: E verisimile che questo fosse un cervo parti- 
colare di Fingal, di straordinaria grandezza e maest^ ; poich^ il 
poeta lo crede degno di rappresentarci Svarano. Ad onta di cid, 
non par che il cervo sia Tanimale piii appropriate d'immagine a 
questa gran bestia. 

Das Galische zeigt, das Cesarotti Richdges ahnte. 

it, 151 : Mar thorc ciar air cruaich nam beantiy 
Ghluais*n a airm Urd righ nan lann ; 

Wie der schwarze Eber auf dem Abhange des Berges 
Setzte sich in seinen Waffen in Bewegung der hohe 
Schwertkonig. 

Der Hirsch heisst fiadh, was auch Wild im Allgemeinen 
bedeutet. 

p. 117-8 : Carilo era in disparte : ei fa che s'aizi 
II suon del como bellicoso ; e intanto 
Scoglie la grata voce, ed il suo spirito 
Sgorga nel cor de*belIicosi eroi. 

Macpherson : Carril, far on the heath, bids the horn of battle 
sound. He raises the voice of song, and pours his soul into the 
minds of the brave. 

Anmerkung : L'originale : e sgorga la sua anima nella mente 
degli eroi. Nella prima edizione s'era tradotto : ed il suo spirto 
Sgorga nelValme degli esiinU eroi, Questo senso di fatto sem- 
brava il piii convenevole. La canzone di Carilo non si riferisce 
per nulla ai guerrieri irlandesi viventi, ma solo a Crugal gi^ 
morto. (Cesarotti sucht nun das Gesagte durch die Situa- 
tion zu begriinden). 

Vgl. ii, 227. Bha Carull anns an doire skuas ^ 
Stoc nam huadh a'fuaim^n a l^imh, 
' TJiogail anama nbr ae t-sluaigh 
Le cruaidh brosnachadh nan dUn, 

Es war Carull im Geholze oben. 

Das Schlachthorn der Siege tonend in seiner Hand 

Erhebend den hohen Muth^ des Heeres 

Durch die Starke der Lieder ermuntemd. 
Wir haben das Galische absichtlich wortlich ubersetzt. 

4 Vgl. TtGMUORA f r, 57. 



ITALO'KELTISCHES. 105 

■ 

Cesarottis Schwierigkeiten sind nur durch die Unklarheiten 
Macphersons zu erkl'aren. 

p. 119: in mezzo a mille, 

Qaal balena che*i mar frange col pondo, 
Slanciaa e mugghia : 

Macpherson : He roared in the midst of thousands. 
Das Bild ist eine Erfindung Cesarottis. 

Noch anders lautet die SteHe im Galbchen : 

ii, 258: (Dh^aotn e tro*mh\lteam an t-siuaigh,) 

(Er eilte hinab durch Tausende des Heeres.) 

Fingal iii, p. 131 : Ei celebr6 la bella 

Vergine della neve, e*l nato al cano 
Signor di Selma — 

Macpherson: He praised the daughter of Lochlin, and Morvens 
high-descended chief. 

iii, 80 : Mhol e nighean Lochlin namffMh 

*S triath Afhdrbheinm a's airee gruaim, 

Er pries die Tochter Lochlins der Wildniss 

Und den HerrscherMhorbheinus, den mit Grimm erfullten, 

p. 135 : Poi ch'avr^ Flngallo 

Guasto il campo nemico, appo una pietra 
Di memoria ripommi, onde il mio nome 
Passi ai tempi futuri, e si ralUgri 
La madre di Caltnar curva sul sasso 
Delia mia fama, 

Macpherson : That the mother of Calmar may rejoice in my 
renown. 

iii, 213 : BVdh a mh^ihair^an astar an fhHdhy 
Fo aoibhneas c^coimhead air*iiir. 

Moge seine Mutter auf dem Pfade des Wildes 
Mit Frohlichkeit niederblicken auf seln Grab. 

Wie platt nimmt sich hiergegen das Englische aus ! 

p. 137 : Qual verdeggiante 

Vapor di morte che talora si posa 
Su i capi di Ma1m6r. 

Macpherson : It was like the green meteor of death setting in the 
heath of Malmor. 

Ist hier keatA mit Aead verwechselt, oder capi mit campi ? 

p. 143 : sento da lungi 

Te trepido rumor delta lor tema, 
Simile al mar che bolle. 

BIacpherson : Far off I hear the noise of their feet like distant 
sounds in woods. 

IVesbalb bier der Wechsel im Bildet DamX vfit^ \^^ 



lo6 RICHARD OTTO. 

Fingal das Nothigsle gesagt. Hieran sei die kurze Besprechung 
von Calloda geschlossen. (CESAROTTi-Ausg. Bd. iv., p. 36 ff.) 

Calloda i, p. 36: Pochi del duce nell*estrania terra 

'Sono i seguaci. 

Anmerkung : L'Autore la chiama sconosciuta : ma tale non 
poteva essere in rigor di Fermine, essendo questa vicina a Gor- 
mal, sede di Stamo, ove Fingal s'era gi^ trovato piii d'una volta. 

Macpherson : Few are the heroes of Morven in a land unknown. . 

i, 14 : *S neO'lionmhor glan digridh nam beann ; 
Tir choigrich a^togaii/o'n ceann. 

Von kleiner Zahl ist die herrliche junge ^^annschaft der 

Berge ; 
Das Land der Fremden erhebt sich dagegen vor ihnen. 

p. 37 : O dal tuo ramo, 

Ove pendi lassii misto coirarpe, 
* Scendi mio scudo ; 

Anmerkung : II testo ha : scendi iu che abiti ira le arpe, e 
nuUe piii. Non era facile ad intendersi ch'egli parli dello scudo. 
Vicendevolmente nel canto 5 di Temora, Ossian chiama abita- 
trice fra gli scudi Tarpa. 

Macpherson: 'Come down/ thus Temora said, 'thou dweller 
between the harps ! Thou shalt roll this stream away or waste with 
me in the earth/ 

I, 40 : Thusa* chbtnhna *s am measg nan clUrsach^ 
A sgiaih bhal/ach, druid-sa gu m*idimh ; — 

Das da wohnt mitten unter Harfen, 

Du geflecktef Schild, nahere dich meiner Hand ; — 

p. 41 : Stamo era questi, il truce re : rota eg;li 
Sopra di me gli occhi di bragia, ombrate 
DaH'ondeggiante setoloso ciglio 
Gioja atroce spirant! . 

Anmerkung: Uoriginale porta: oscuro errava Pirsuio sua 
ciglio sopra U stu> increspaio sorriso. Un ciglio che ondeggia 
sopra un sorriso, o se si vuol, sopra un labbro, ^ un'idea alquanto 
strana, e piii che Caledonia. S'l cercato di renderla un po' piii 
nostrale. 

Macpherson : Dark waved his shaggy brow above his gathered 
smile. 

1, 151 : Bu dorcha garbh a mhala dhubh^ 
S* i *gdiregun chruth le sblas, 

£s waren dunkel und wild seine schwarzen Augenbrauen, 
Und er lachte in unfreudiger Weise. 

p. 44 : — atro-velluto il ciglio 

Vedi ondeggiar sull'addensata rabbia 
Che gli scoppia dal guardo ; 

Anmerkung: Vor " ho velhUo sopracAglio tmitg^ 



ITALO'KELTISCHES. 107 

fatto di coUocar neU'occhio cotesto cumulo di rabbia, perchd 
il ciglio potesse ondeggiarvi sopra, senza gran difficotlk. Cos! 
Tespressione h meno strana, senza essere meno forte. 

Macpherson : His shaggy brows wave dark, above his gathered 
rage. 

i, 223 : A mhaia dhubh a^cromadh trom 
Air agaidh uaibhrich an ardain, 

Seine schwarzen Augeubrauen waren schwer gehoben 
Ueber dem hochfahrenden Zomes-Antlitz. 

Calloda ii, p. 52 : Comparve 

L*occhio notturno d'UllocIina, e vide 

Delia donzella il tenero sospiro, 

L'alzar del seno, e'l volteggiar del fianco. 

Anmerkung: Neiroriginale non vi sono che queste parole, 
e vide le agitate braccia de Sirinadona, II poeta intende di 
significare 1 inquietudine amorosa della donzella ; ma questo solo 
indizio non fa sentir abbastanza il suo intendimento. Il'tradut- 
tore ha sostituiti alcuni altri contrassegni che hanno una rela- 
zione piii stretta colla passione di una giovine innamorata. 

Macpherson: Ul-lochlin's nightly eye looked in, and saw the 
tossing arms of Strina-dona. 

ii, 200 : Sheall caoin-reul Lochlin o stuaidh 
Air ainnir aluinn bu gldaine hrla^ 
*Si ^togail a Idtnh geal, cavin^ 
Stri-nandaoin^ *bu ghuirtne sUiL 

£s blickte Lochlins gliicklicher Stem vom Meere aus 
Auf das liebliche Madchen mit hellem Antlitz, 
Wie sie ihre sanften weissen Arme erhob 
Strinadona die blau-augige. 

Kann es ein lieblicheres Bild geben ? 

Nun wollen wir den Leser nicht langer mit diesen Vergleich- 
ungen aufhalten, das Resultat erkennt man jetzt schon fiir 
Geniige. Wiirden wir auf diese Weise das ganze Buch durch- 
gehen, so wiirden wir immer wieder beobachten, wie sich 
Cesarotti abmiiht, um den dunkelen und widerspruchsvoUen 
Ausdriicken Macphersons Sinn und Bedeutung zu geben und 
in seiner Ubersetzung die asthetischen Mangel abzuschwachen 
Oder zu vermeiden. Richten wir dann wieder unsere Blicke auf 
den galischenText, so erkennen wir mit voller Bestimmtheit, dass 
die Unklarheiten im englischen Texte im galischen nicht nur 
nicht begriindet sind, nein, dass sogar Schonheiten in Hiille 
und Fiille demselben innewohnen, von denen aus Macpher- 
sons englischen Umdichtungen Niemand eine Ahnung erhalt. 
Hier ist mithin die hundertjahrige Streitfrage anzugreifen, an 
derselben Stelle, wo ihr am Anfang unsetes ^dM\v\\tA«^\. K»\-- 
WARDT bereits so erfolgreich nahe trat. HaX. lllkC^^^^^o^ 



io6 RICHARD OTTO. 

Fingal das Nothigsle gesagt. Hieran sei die kurze Besprechung 
von Calloda geschlossen. (CESAROTTi-Ausg. Bd. iv., p. 36 ff.) 

Calloda i, p. 36: Pochi del duce neirestrania terra 

'Sono i seguaci. 

Anmerkung : L'Autore la chiama sconosciuia : ma tale non 
poteva essere in rigor di Fermine, essendo questa vicina a Gor- 
mal, sede di Stamo, ove Fingal s'era gii trovato pid d'una volta. 

Macpherson : Few are the heroes of Morven in a land unknown. . 

i, 14 : *5* neo'lionmhor glan bigridh nam beann ; 
Tir choigrich aHogailf6*n ceann. 

Von kleiner Zahl ist die herrliche junge ^^annschaft der 

Berge ; 
Das Land der Fremden erhebt sich dagegen vor ihnen. 

p. 37 : O dal tuo ramo, 

Ove pendi lassii misto coll'arpe, 
* Scendi mio scudo ; 

Anmerkung : II testo ha : scendi iu che abiti ira le arpe, e 
nuUe pid. Non era facile ad intendersi ch'egli parli dello scudo. 
Vicendevolmente nel canto 5 di Temora, Ossian chiama abita- 
trice fra gli scudi I'arpa. 

Macpherson: 'Come down/ thus Temora said, 'thou dweller 
between the harps ! Thou shalt roll this stream away or waste with 
me in the earth.' 

X, 40 : Thusa* chbmhna *s am measg nan cUtrsach^ 
A sgiath bhaliachi druid-sa gu m*iitimh; — 

Das da wohnt mitten unter Harfen, 

Du geflecktef Schild, nahere dich meiner Hand ; — 

p. 41 : Stamo era questi, il truce re : rota egli 
Sopra di me gli occhi di bragia, ombrate 
Dairondeggiante setoloso ciglio 
Gioja atroce spiranti. 

Anmerkung: L'originale porta: oscuro errava rirsuio silo 
ciglio sapra tl suo increspaio sorriso. Un ciglio che ondeggia 
sopra un sorriso, o se si vuol, sopra un labbro, ^ un'idea alquanto 
strana, e piii che Caledonia. S'l cercato di renderla un po' pid 
nostrale. 

Macpherson : Dark waved his shag^j^y brow above his gathered 
smile. 

z, 151 : Bu dorcha garbh a mhala dhubh^ 
S* ^ *gdire gun chruth le sblas. 

£s waren dunkel und wild seine schwarsen Augenbraueii» 
Und er lachte in unfreudiger Weis^. 

p. 44 : — atro-velluto il ciglio 

Vedi ondeggiar tull'add' 
Che gH wcooir^' 

Anmerkunfc: ' 



ITALO'KELTISCHES. 107 

fatto di coUocar nell'occhio cotesto cumulo di rabbia, perchfe 
il ciglio potesse ondeggiarvi sopra, senza gran difficotli. Cos! 
Tespressione h meno strana, senza essere meno forte. 

Macpherson : His shaggy brows wave dark, above his gathered 
rage. 

i, 223 : A mhaia dhubh a^cromadh trom 
Air agaidh uaibhrich an ardain. 

Seine schwarzen Augeubrauen waren schwer gehoben 
Ueber dem hochfahrenden Zomes-Antlitz. 

Calloda ii» p. 52 : Comparve 

L*occhio nottumo d'Ulloclina, e vide 

Delia donzella il tenero sospiro, 

L'alzar del seno, e*l volteggiar del fianco. 

Anmerkung: Neiroriginale non vi sono che queste parole, 
e vide le agUaie braccia de Strinadona. II poeta intende di 
significare 1 inquietudine amorosa della donzella ; ma questo solo 
indizio non fa sentir abbastanza il suo intendimento. Iftradut- 
tore ha sostituiti alcuni altri contrassegni che hanno una rela- 
zione piii stretta colla passione di una giovine innamorata. 

Macpherson: UMochlin's nightly eye looked in, and saw the 
tossing arms of Strina-dona. 

ii, 200 : She all caoin-reul Lochlin o stuaidh 
Air ainnir aluinn bu gldaine hrla^ 
'Si ^togail a Idmh gealy cavin, 
Stri-natidaoin* *bu ghuirme shil, 

Es blickte Lochlins gliicklicher Stem vom Meere aus 
Auf das liebliche Madchen mit hellem Antlitz, 
Wie sie ihre sanften weissen Arme erhob 
Strinadona die blau-augige. 

Kann es ein lieblicheres Bild geben ? 

Nun wollen wir den Leser nicht langer mit diesen Vergleich- 
ungen aufhalten, das Resultat erkennt man jetzt schon fiir 
Geniige. Wiirden wir auf diese Weise das ganze Buch durch- 
gehen, so wiirden wir immer wieder beobachten, wie sich 
Cesarotti abmiiht, um den dunkelen und widerspruchsvoUen 
Ausdriicken Macphersons Sinn und Bedeutung zu geben und 
in seiner Ubersetzung die asthetischen Mangel abzuschwachen 
oder zu vermeiden. Richten wir dann wieder unsere Blicke auf 
den galischenText, so erkennen wir mit voUer Bestimmtheit, dass 
die Unklarheiten im englischen Texte im g'alischen nicht nur 
nicht b^griindet sind, nein, dass sogar Schonheiten in Hiille 
und Fiille demselben innewohnen, von denen aus Macpher- 
sons englischen Umdichtungen Niemand eine Ahnung erhalt. 
'Hier ist mithin die hundertjahrige Streitfrage anzugreifen, an 
W&en Stelle, wo ihr am Anfang unsetes ^a\«\v\\tA«%\. K»\-- 
>r bereits so erfolgreich nahe trat. HaX. TiUkC^^^^^o'^ 



lo6 RICHARD OTTO. 

Fingal das Nothigste gesagt. Hieran sei die kurze Besprechung 
von Calloda geschlossen. (CESAROTTi-Ausg. Bd. iv., p. 36 ff.) 

Calloda i, p. 36: Pochi del duce neirestrania terra 

'Sono i seguaci. 

Anmerkung : L'Autore la chiama scanosciuia : ma tale non 
poteva essere in rigor di Fermine, essendo questa vicina a Gor- 
mal, sede di Stamo, ove Fingal s'era gii trovato piii d'una volta. 

Macpherson : Few are the heroes of Morven in a land unknown. . 

i, 14 : ^S neo'lionmhor glan bigridh nam beann ; 
Tir choigrich a*togail/o*n ceann. 

Von kleiner Zahl ist die herrliche junge ^^annschafl der 

Berge ; 
Das Land der Fremden erhebt sich dagegen vor ihnen. 

p. 37 : O dal tuo ramo, 

Ove pendi lassii misto coirarpe, 
* Scendi mio scudo ; 

Anmerkung : 11 testo ha : scendi iu che abiti ira le arpe, e 
nulle pi(i. Non era facile ad intendersi ch'egli parli dello scudo. 
Vicendevolmente nel canto 5 di Temora, Ossian chiama abita- 
trice fra gli scudi Tarpa. 

Macpherson: *Comc down,* thus Temora said, 'thou dweller 
between the harps ! Thou shalt roll this stream away or waste with 
me in the earth/ 

X, 40: Thusa* cAdfnhna *s am measgnan clbrsach^ 
A sgiath bhallachy druid-sa gu m*idimh ; — 

Das da wohnt mitten unter Harfen, 

Du geflecktef Schild, nahere dich meiner Hand ; — 

p. 41 : Stamo era questi, il truce re : rota egli 
Sopra di me gli occhi di bragia, ombrate 
Dairondeggiante setoloso ciglio 
Gioja atroce spiranti. 

Anmerkung: L'originale porta: oscuro errava Pirsuio sua 
ciglio sopra U suo increspato sorriso. Un ciglio che ondeggia 
sopra un sorriso, o se si vuol, sopra un labbro, ^ un'idea alquanto 
strana, e piii che Caledonia. S'l cercato di renderla un po' piil 
nostrale. 

Macpherson : Dark waved his shaggy brow above his gathered 
smile. 

X, 151 : Bu dorcha garbh a mhala dhubh^ 
S* i *gdire gun chruth le sblas. 

£s waren dunkel und wild seine schwarzen Augenbrauen, 
Und er lachte in unfreudiger Weise. 

p. 44 : — atro-velluto il ciglio 

Vedi ondeggiar suH'addensata rabbia 
Che gli scoppia dal guardo ; 

Anmerkung: L'originale: il stio veUtUo si^oxc^lio ondeggia 
Siffira rammasscUa sua rabbia. 11 txaduXXot^ \a. cx^d^aXs^ \)Ksq^ 



ITAL O'KEL TISCHES. 107 

j(atto di coUocar neU'occhio cotesto cumulo di rabbia, perchft 
il ciglio potesse ondeggiarvi sopra, senza gran difficotli. Cos! 
Tespressione h meno strana, senza essere meno forte. 

Macpherson : His shaggy brows wave dark, above his gathered 
rage. 

i, 223 : A tnhala dhubh d'crotnadh trom 
Air agaidh uaibhrich an ardain, 

Seine schwarzen Augeubrauen waren schwer gehoben 
Ueber dem hochfahrenden Zomes-Antlitz. 

Calloda ii, p. 52 : Comparve 

L'occhio nottumo d'Ulloclina, e vide 

De4Ia donzella il tenero sospiro, 

L'alzar del seno, eM volteggiar del fianco. 

Anmerkung: Nell'originale non vi sono che queste parole, 
e vide le agitate braccia de Strinadona. II poeta intende di 
significare linquietudine amorosa della donzella ; ma questo solo 
indizio non fa sentir abbastanza il suo intendimento. Il'tradut- 
tore ha sostituiti alcuni altri contrassegni che hanno una rela- 
zione piii stretta colla passione di una giovine innamorata. 

Macpherson: Ul-lochlin's nightly eye looked in, and saw the 
tossing arms of Strina-dona. 

ii, 200 : Sheall caoin-reul Lochlin o stuaidh 
Air ainnir aluinn bu gldaine hrla^ 
*Si *iogaila Ihmh geal^ caving 
Stri-nandaoin^ *bu ghuirme siiiL 

Es blickte Lochlins gliicklicher Stem vom Meere aus 
Auf das liebliche Madchen mit hellem Antlitz, 
Wie sie ihre sanften weissen Arme erhob 
Strinadona die blau-augige. 

Kann es ein lieblicheres Bild geben ? 

Nun woUen wir den Leser nicht I'anger mit diesen Vergleich- 
ungen aufhalten, das Resultat erkennt man jetzt schon fiir 
Geniige. Wiirden wir auf diese Weise das ganze Buch durch- 
gehen, so wiirden wir immer wieder beobachten, wie sich 
Cesarotti abmiiht, um den dunkelen und widerspruchsvoUen 
Ausdriicken Macphersons Sinn und Bedeutung zu geben und 
in seiner Ubersetzung die asthetischen Mangel abzuschwachen 
oder zu vermeiden. Richten wir dann wieder unsere Blicke auf 
den galischen Text, so erkennen wir mit voUer Bestimmtheit, dass 
die Unklarheiten im englischen Texte im galischen nicht nur 
nicht begriindet sind, nein, dass sogar Schonheiten in HUlle 
und FUUe demselben innewohnen, von denen aus Macpher- 
sons englischen Umdichtungen Niemand eine Ahnung erhalt. 
Hier ist mithin die hundertj'ahrige Streitfrage anzugreifen, an 
derselben Stelle, wo ihr am Anfang unseres Jahrhunderst Ahl- 
WARDT bereits so erfolgreich nahe trat. Hat Mkcfherson 



lo6 RICHARD OTTO, 

Fingal das Nothigste gesagt. Hieran sei die kurze Besprechung 
von Calloda geschlossen. (CESAROTTi-Ausg. Bd. iv., p. 36 ff.) 

Calloda i, p. 36: Pochi del duce neirestrania terra 

Sono i seguaci. 

Anmerkung : L'Autore la chiama scanosciuta : ma tale non 
poteva essere in rigor di Fermine, essendo questa vicina a Gor- 
mal, sede di Starno, ove Fingal s*era gi^ trovato piii d'una volta. 

Macpherson : Few are the heroes of Morven in a land unknown. . 

i, 14 : *S neo-lionmhor glan bigridh nam beann ; 
Tir choigrich a*togail/o*n ceann. 

Von kleiner Zahl ist die herrliche junge ^^annschaft der 

Berge ; 
Das Land der Fremden erhebt sich dagegen vor ihnen. 

p. 37 : O dal tuo ramo, 

Ove pendi lassil misto colFarpe, 
' Scendi mio scudo ; 

Anmerkung : II testo ha : scendi tu che obiH tra le arpe^ e 
nulle piii. Non era facile ad intendersi ch'egli parli dello scudo. 
Vicendevolmente nel canto 5 di Temora, Ossian chiama abita- 
trice fra gli scudi Tarpa. 

Macpherson: 'Come down/ thus Temora said, 'thou dweller 
between the harps ! Thou shalt roll this stream away or waste with 
me in the earth.' 

I, 40: Thusa^ chbmhna *s am measgnan cihrsach^ 
A sgiath bhallachy druid-sa gu m^lhimh; — 

Das da wohnt mitten unter Harfen, 

Du geflecktef Schild, nahere dich meiner Hand ; — 

p. 41 : Stamo era questi» il truce re : rota egli 
Sopra di me gli occhi di bragia, ombrate 
DaH'ondeggiante setoloso ciglio 
Gioja atroce spiranti. 

Anmerkung: L'originale porta: oscuro errava Pirstdo sua 
ciglio sopra il suo increspato sorriso, Un ciglio che ondeggia 
sopra un sorriso, o se si vuol, sopra un labbro, ^ un'idea alquanto 
strana, e piii che Caledonia. S'l cercato di renderla un po' piii 
nostrale. 

Macpherson : Dark waved his shaggy brow above his gathered 
smile. 

1, 151 : Bu dorcha garbh a mhala dhubh, 
S* i ^gdire gun chruth le sd/as. 

Es waren dunkel und wild seine schwarzen Augenbrauen» 
Und er lachte in unfreudiger Weise. 

p. 44 : — atro-velluto il ciglio 

Vedi ondeggiar sull'addensata rabbia 
Che gli scoppia dal guardo ; 

Anmerkung: L'originale: il stw veUtUo ^opracciglio ondegma 
siffira rammasscUa sua raJbhia. 1\ tradwtXot^ Ya. ckAnXs^ \)«^ 



ITAL O'KEL TISCHES. 107 

j(atto di coUocar neirocchio cotesto cumulo di rabbia, perchife 
il ciglio potesse ondeggiarvi sopra, senza gran difficotl4. Cos! 
Tespressione h meno strana, senza essere meno forte. 

Macpherson : His shaggy brows wave dark, above his gathered 
rage. 

i, 223 : A mhala dhubh d'crotnadh trom 
Air agaidh uaibhrich an ardain, 

Seine schwarzen Augeubrauen waren schwer gehoben 
Ueber dem hochfahrenden Zomes-Antlitz. 

Calloda ii, p. 52 : Comparve 

L'occhio nottumo d*Ulloclina, e vide 

Delia donzella il tenero sospiro, 

L^alzar del seno, e*l volteggiar del fianco. 

Anmerkung: Neiroriginale non vi sono che queste parole, 
e vide le agitate braccia de Strinadona. II poeta intende di 
significare linquietudine amorosa della donzella ; ma questo solo 
indizio non fa sentir abbastanza il suo intendimento. Iftradut- 
tore ha sostituiti alcuni altri contrassegni che hanno una rela- 
zione piii stretta coUa passione di una g^ovine innamorata. 

Macpherson: Ul-lochlin's nightly eye looked in, and saw the 
tossing arms of Strina-dona. 

ii, 200 : Sheall caoin-reul Lochlin o stuaidh 
Air ainnir aluinn bu gldaine hrla^ 
*Si */ogai/ a Idmh geal, cavin, 
Stri-nandaoin^ *bu ghuirme siiil, 

Es blickte Lochlins gliicklicher Stem vom Meere aus 
Auf das liebliche Madchen mit hellem Antlitz, 
Wie sie ihre sanften weissen Arme erhob 
Strinadona die blau-augige. 

Kann es ein lieblicheres Bild geben ? 

Nun woUen wir den Leser nicht langer mit diesen Vergleich- 
ungen aufhalten, das Resultat erkennt man jetzt schon fiir 
Geniige. Wiirden wir auf diese Weise das ganze Buch durch- 
gehen, so wiirden wir immer wieder beobachten, wie sich 
Cesarotti abmiiht, urn den dunkelen und widerspruchsvoUen 
Ausdriicken Macphersons Sinn und Bedeutung zu geben und 
in seiner Ubersetzung die asthetischen Mangel abzuschw'achen 
oder zu vermeiden. Richten wir dann wieder unsere Blicke auf 
den galischen Text, so erkennen wir mit voUer Bestimmtheit, dass 
die Unklarheiten im englischen Texte im galischen nicht nur 
nicht begriindet sind, nein, dass sogar Schonheiten in Hiille 
und Fiille demselben innewohnen, von denen aus Macpher- 
sons englischen Umdichtungen Niemand eine Ahnung erhalt. 
Hier ist mithin die hundertj'ahrige Streitfrage anzugreifen, an 
derselben Stelle, wo ihr am Anfang unseres Jahrhunderst Ahl- 
WARDT bereits so erfolgreich nahe trat. Hat Mkcfherson 



114 JULIUS GOEBEL. 

divided into different classes, according as they claim that an 
indefinite or a definite notion is the subject of such sentences. 
We are assured by many grammarians that the indefinite notion 
forming the subject is contained in the verbal stem of the im- 
personal. Thus the verb-form curritur is to be explained : 
cursus curritur^ an explanation which appears as far back as 
the grammarian Priscian who says : Cum dico curritur, cursus 
intelligo, et sedetur sessio, et evenit eventus. It is obvious, 
however, that this explanation is not sufficient for all imper- 
sonals and when I say gespeist, there can not be any doubt as 
to ^\izX gespeist wird^ das Speisen^ the verbal stem, or die Spetse, 
the food. 

The indefinite notion may also be supplied by other means 
as some grammarians think. In vrt we can add Zeus, in dvdxoTci 
^ai we can supply 4^efia and instead of es fehlt an Geld we 
can say Geld fehlt. But it would be very difficult to find a 
subject for every impersonal, and this lack of uniformity has 
especially displeased the philosophers who tried to find an 
indefinite notion which would cover all cases. Many of them 
believe to have found it in the indefinite Etwas^ which they sub- 
stitute for the German es. Thus Ueberweg says: Niemals 
kann einem Urtheil und Satze das Subject vollig fehlen, wohl 
aber kann die bestimmte Subjectsvorstellung fehlen und anstat 
dessen das blosse Etwas (es) eintreten. In es ist ein Gott, 
es gibt einen Gott, tritt die unbestimmt vorgestellte Totalitat des 
Seienden oder ein unbestimmter Theil desselben als Subject ein, 
gleichwie auch in den Satzen : es regnet, etc. Similar views are 
represented by Lotze who says : Wer ein impersonales Urtheil 
ausspricht, betrachtet den bestimmten Inhalt als haftend an 
einem unbestimmten Subject. Das Es in 'es blitzt' bezeichnet 
den allumfassenden Gedanken der Wirklichkeit, die bald so, 
bald anders gestaltet ist.— Brantl, Bergmann, Wundt and 
Steinthal may also be named here as representatives of the 
same view, which we must regard as a product of philosophic 
speculation, but which has no support in the facts of common 
speech and thought. 

Entirely antagonistic to this view is the opinion which holds 
that there is no subject contained in the impersonals. Dissatis- 
fied with the attempts to find a subject, as mentioned above, a 
number of logicians and grammarians regard the impersonal as 
an exception in human speech, some even going so far as to 
require a revision of the laws of \ogvc coticetmti^ the nature of 



ON THE IMPERSONAL VERB. 115 

the judgment Among the philosophers we find Herbart and 
Trendelenburg expressing doubt as to whether the imper- 
sonal really contains a judgment. Thus the former declares : 
dass das Inipersonale nicht als gewohnliches Urtheil anzusehen 
sei, and Trendelenburg regards it als ein unvollstandiges 
Urtheil, ein Rudiment eines Urtheils. — Unconcerned about the 
logical consequences, grammarians like Heyse, Grimm and 
Benfey have declared that the impersonals do not possess a 
subject. They were recentiy joined by Miklosich whose book, 
* Subjectlose Satze,' caused the whole discussion to be opened 
again with renewed energy. His position was defended by A. 
Marty in an essay : " Ueber subjectiose Satze und das Verhalt- 
nis der Grammatik zu Logik und Psychologie *' in the Zeit- 
schrififur wissefischa/iliche Philosophic, viii, 56 ff. The results 
which Miklosich and Marty apparentiy had reached by their 
investigations were, however, attacked and refuted by W. 
ScHUPPE in an essay on " Subjectiose Satze " in the Zeitschrift 
fur Volkerpsychologie and in the most interesting and instruc- 
tive monograph by Sigwart : " Die Impersonalien, Eine logische 
Untersuchung." 

A peculiar position between the two factions is occupied by 
Paul in his * Principien der Sprachgeschichte.* Making a dis- 
tinction between the psychological and the logical subject of a 
sentence, he ascribes the former to the impersonals while he 
denies the existence of the latter. We shall see, however, in 
the course of this paper which will attempt to supplement 
Sigwart*s logical discussion by linguistic considerations, to the 
effect that a complicated question like this can not be settled by 
a few remarks of an apodeictical nature, as Paul seems to think. 
In view of the greater abundance of impersonals in the German 
language than in other European idioms, I shall take my illus- 
trations mostiy from this source. 

The attempts at an explanation such as is mentioned above, 
are characterized by two modes of procedure, one of which we, 
too, might be tempted to adopt It might be possible that the 
impersonals which have been preserved to us in the various 
languages, are the relics of a pre-historic stage of syntactical 
construction from which the present sentence has gradually 
developed. This is, however, shown to be a fruitless hypothesis 
by the simple fact that the impersonals are constantiy increasing, 
not to speak of the fact that we are entirely without means to 
prove such a development in the languages vjhos^ bialot'^ Hie 



Il6 JULIUS GOES EL. 

are able to trace. Having, therefore, to deal not with a pre- 
historic relic, but with a living linguistic phenomenon, still capa- 
ble in the German, at least, of new formations, we might also 
reduce the various impersonals to their common characteristics 
and construct upon these an hypothesis which would explain 
them. Since all impersonals agree in containing either a verb ; 
for example, vei, tanai^ es blitzt * it lightens', or a noun, or an 
adjective with the verb to be ; for example, es isi kali, * it is 
cold ', is it not possible to find a subject which would meet all 
cases though it is not expressed? 

It will be remembered that the philosophers, especially, have 
tried the latter method without, however, reaching satisfactory 
results. For it has been justly remarked by Schuppe and 
SiGWART that a conclusion from that which has been expressed 
to that which was thought, is not admissible, since many things 
which are thought do not, or cannot find an expression in lan- 
guage. The want of an expressed subject in the impersonals 
is, therefore, not to be considered a proof of either its existence 
or its non-existence. But since we are constantly making use 
of impersonals we are still in the position of observing the psy- 
chological process at the basis of this peculiar syntactical con- 
struction. An investigation into this psychological process may 
not only solve the problem concerning the real nature of the im- 
personal, but it may also furnish us with a key to the understand- 
ing of its origin in the various languages. — There is no doubt 
that we meet in the impersonal the same psychic function which 
appears at the basis of all human speech, still it may not be 
useless to repeat here a few fundamental facts. We know that 
the picture of the world about us consists of representations 
caused by sense-impressions, representations which find their 
expression in the various words of the language. But in order 
that we may use a word to signify a certain representation, it is 
necessary that its meaning be known to the speaker as well as 
to the hearer ; it is necessary that by association the word shall 
have become the sign of the special representation. If I use 
the word " man," I imply that by previous sense impressions 
the picture of the human form is present to my mind and that 
this inner, mental picture is closely connected with the word 
** man.'* Thus, the words of a language present a vast number 
of representations which I can reproduce in others that speak 
the same language, by the simple utterance of the words. But 
while I may thus reproduce, in the hearer, representations which 



ON THE IMPERSONAL VERB. 



117 



he already possesses, I am unable to impart any new knowledge 
by such isolated words. The latter can only be accomplished 
if, to the word used, a relation to some other representation is 
added which is originally not contained in that word. It does 
not make any difference whether this relation is expressed by 
the speaker or not ; for, if it is not, it has to be supplemented 
by the hearer. When I pronounce the single word " march !," 
it will produce in your minds the representation of marching 
which you have previously gained by looking at soldiers or free- 
masons. If, however, I were to address a company of soldiers 
with the word " march!,'* the term would have still another 
meaning besides the representation of the idea of marching. 
The soldiers would supplement the notion with the concept that 
I also meant the command of marching. If, however, the 
hearer is not able to supplement by the situation the relation 
existing in my mind, it is necessary to express it. Hence it is 
evident that human speech, as far as it is a statement or the 
conveying of a judgment, must necessarily consist of at least 
two members which grammar distinguishes as subject and 
predicate. 

While we have thus deduced the fact that the logical judg- 
ment contained in every sentence implies the existence of a 
subject and a predicate, we must still determine to what class of 
judgments the im personals belong in order to determine their 
subjects. This inquiry is facilitated by the character itself of 
the impersonals which, as is generally conceded, express, with a 
very few exceptions, concrete perceptions. Sigwart in his 
* Logik ' has fortunately named the judgments expressing a syn- 
thesis of a perception made at this moment with the represen- 
tation that I already have in my mind: Benennungsuriheile, 
Such a judgment I express, for example, when I show a friend 
the city in which I live and which he has never seen before, and, 
pointing out to him the various buildings, I say: this is the 
cathedral, that is the court house, etc. A similar synthesis, 
though the niental process is somewhat more complicated, is 
contained in judgments expressing a quality or an action of 
iK>me object ; as, for example, the apple is green, or the bird 
flies. This process of synthesis takes place very easily where 
we have to deal with phenomena, or objects, which are accessi- 
ble to our observation. It becomes, however, more difficult 
when the object, or the phenomenon, is removed from my 
direct observation and I perceive only the quality, or the action. 



\ 



ir8 JULIUS GOEBEL. 

If I notice, for example, in the twilight, a red light in the dis- 
tance without being able to discern the direct cause of it, I shall 
say in German : dori gldnzt etwas^ the latter word taking the 
place of the subject required by the custom of speech in such 
sentences. In many cases, that part of the sentence which we 
call the predicate thus enters our consciousness first, and so we 
can understand why the Hebrew language, for example, usually 
places the predicate before the subject And here we also find 
the explanation for the syntactical construction, peculiar to the 
German language, according to which the pronoun es precedes 
the real subject of the sentence. This es, therefore, not only 
contains the consoling assurance that the speaker, or writer, will 
not leave us without a subject but it reflects the secret logical 
power of the German idiom which demands a subject before 
the predicate. Sentences like es Vdchelt der See, es steht ein 
Baum, etc., are, however, not strictly impersonals, nor is the es 
necessarily required here. This can be seen from the early 
writings of Goethe who, following the advice of Herder, left 
it out in many cases ; as, for example, in : Sah ein Knab ein 
Roslein stehn. Other instructive examples for the psychologi- 
cal origin of the impersonals are furnished by the sensations of 
hearing and of smell, which, without the aid of sight or touch, 
leave us in doubt as to their cause. And this uncertainty or 
indefiniteness again finds its expression by the pronoun es \ as, 
for example, in sentences like : es rauscht, es riecht, es tont, etc. 
SiGWART, in his monograph mentioned above, has proved con- 
clusively, according to my opinion, that in all of these cases we 
have a synthesis of a subject and its qualities, or actions, though 
the representation of this subject may fi^equentiy be confused, or 
we may, for convenience sake, omit to express it 

There are, however, cases in which the representation of the 
subject is not only confused, or indefinite, but absolutely obscure, 
and these examples have served as a proof to those who deny 
the existence of a subject in the real impersonals. Again: 
Schuppe and especially Sigwart have made it evident that in 
these impersonals the quality, or the action, which we notice* 
without regard to the subject of its cause, becomes the subject 
of the statement, or judgment Sigwart uses the following 
illustration : when I hear a knocking at the door, I know very 
well that somebody wishes to come in, and, in case I wish to 
direct the attention to the cause of the knocking, I shall say : 
yirmand kicp/L But when I say : es fetoftft, 1 simply wish to 



ON THE IMPERSONAL VERB. 119 

state that the noise which I heard was a knocking without 
regard to the knocker. It is evident from this, that occur- 
rences, or conditions, which make a sense impression on us, 
may themselves become the subject of a statement ; thus, the 
impersonal ionat means nothing but the statement that what I 
have just heard is thunder, and the pronoun es in the German, 
€s dannerty has no other significance than that of the demonstra- 
tive das in the sentence das ist Banner . — It is scarcely necessary 
to state that these im personals present the same synthesis which 
SiGWART calls BenennungsuriheiU. Various classes of im- 
personals may be distinguished as belonging under this head, 
having originated psychologically in the same way. It is the 
idea of motion without regard to its direct cause which finds its 
expression in impersonals like : es wimntelt^ es siromt nach der 
Kirche, etc. The same idea is expressed in impersonals 
describing the movements of water, or the ocean; as, for 
example, Es branded €S iobt^ es wallet tmd siedei und brausei 
und zischi^ etc. 

Another class of impersonalia belonging here is composed of 
those impersonals which are found in the passive, and in which 
the significance of the pronoun es is made evident by its entire 
. omission ; for example. Erst wurde gespielt, dann getanzt und 
schliesslich gespeisi, — A third class of impersonals of the same 
logical and psychological character is formed by those which 
describe conditions of our body and soul; for example, es 
friert mich: es hungeri mich ; Es ist miry ich weiss nicht wie; 
mir grants J mich drdngts^ etc. We must look for the psycho- 
logical origin of these impersonals in the fact, that in the vari- 
ous states of feeling of which we become conscious, we appear 
ourselves to be passive, and hunger, fear, wonder, etc., seem to 
attack us like hostile powers. The contradiction between the 
customary forms of language and the real state of things 
becomes quite evident in these cases. For the mere question : 
Was hungert mich, diirstet mich, grant mir, etc., for which there 
is no answer, shows the ridiculousness of the presumption that 
es took here the place of a subject. These impersonals simply 
affirm that the state of being hungry, thirsty, etc., takes place 
in my particular case as we can still see from the English equiv- 
alents : I am hungry, I am thirsty, I am afraid, etc. 

A similar logical and psychological process may be found in 
the impersonals referring to the weather, to the changes of day 
and night, of the seasons and other periods oi ^me,?J\ c>^ ^\v\Oa 



I20 JULIUS GOEBEL. 

denote the occurrence of a phenomenon in a certain space, or at 
a certain period of time. In the impersonals " it rains," " it 
snows," " it hails," etc., the collective nature of the phenome- 
non, that is, the mass of rain drops, snow flakes, etc., makes 
it impossible to speak of a single cause as being the subject of 
these sentences. It is, on the contrary, just this collective 
character of the phenomena which appears in the verbs of the 
impersonal sentences. It is impossible to enter here into a dis- 
cussion of those impersonals which express the idea of existence, 
or the opposite ; the idea of want, of necessity, etc. Against the 
assertions of Herbart and Brentano, Sigwart has proved 
conclusively that the idea of existence, or non-existence, asserted 
of an object must necessarily be considered a predicate, and 
that impersonals expressing this idea have to be regarded as 
logical judgments composed of the two regular sentence-num- 
bers : subject and predicate. The only variation between these 
impersonals and those discussed before, consists in the difference 
of the process of thinking which is at the basis of both. There 
can scarcely be any doubt that the same psychological and log- 
ical process which we can still observe in the use of the imper- 
sonals, were also effective when they first originated. We have 
no reason to believe that the fundamental laws of human think- 
ing which found its expression in language have been different 
from the modes practiced at any early period of speech. And 
the method of linguistic research which throws light upon earlier 
formations of the language by the investigation of present 
speech phenomena should, above all, be applied in the case of 
the impersonals. 

From our previous discussion it will probably have been 
made clear, that in every case we have before us a logical 
judgment consisting of the two necessary sentence members 
whether the subject is expressed or not. Our psychological 
considerations have, on the other hand, shown us how it was 
possible either to omit the statement of the subject entirely, or 
to conceal it under the indefinite pronoun U, es^ il, SI. vano^ or 
have it bound up in the simple third person singular, as in Latin 
and Greek. Taking for granted that words like fire ! murder I 
march ! in certain situations must be considered full sentences, 
we might suppose that forms like pluU, tanat, vei ddrpdxrcny 
flpovra were originally used in a similar sense. But here the 
question arises, why was the third person singular chosen for 
this purpose and not the infinitive, which is really used in forms 



ON THE IMPERSONAL VERB, 121 

like ou/siiMen^ iaufen, etc. It has been claimed, that, because in 
several languages the third person singular appears without an 
ending, the existence of such an ending in other languages was 
not sufficient proof of the existence of a subject But whether 
it had an ending or not, some form of the verb must have been 
used for the third person singular as long as human thinking 
makes a- distinction between the first, second and third persons. 
Considering the concrete nature of the impersonate, as well as 
the concrete nature of early human thought, it seems to me that 
this mode of impersonal expression has gradually arisen from 
personal constructions. Glancing over the impersonate of the 
ancient languages, we find side by side with those describing 
natural phenomena such as are the result of most complicated 
psychological processes; as, for example, beside ver, fipovrd 
ianai^ pluii, etc., x(^* ^^h opariei, vacate etc. But it must cer- 
tainly be considered a remarkable fact that Homer, besides 
having very few impersonate never uses vit^fipoyrdy etc., without 
their subject Zeus, while Herodotus always substitutes 6 Se6?. 
We seem to be able to follow here the gradual disappearance of 
that imaginative mythological view of the world msdcing room 
little by little for a more rationalistic mode of conception, which, 
finally, in the impersonate leaves out the mythological subject 
as the representer of the frequent phenomena of nature. A 
similar course of development may also have taken place in the 
case of those impersonate whose subject at an earlier stage may 
also have been a mythological power ; as, for example, in the 
impersonate expressing the idea of necessity and of development. 
Greek del, yiyye63ai, Lat. apartet^ fit, Goth, vairpan^ skulan. 
Having gradually omitted their original subject and presenting 
only the third person singular of the verbal stem, these forms 
may easily have become the model for statements in which the 
outward phenomenon was vividly felt, while the cause was 
equally as obscure as it had become in the case of the phe- 
nomena of nature. There is no reason to prevent us firom sup- 
posing that conditions of feeling should now have suggested 
themselves quite easily, as we can see from the Latin me pudci^ 
piget, poenUet, taedei aigue miseret. As I know that I am here 
treading upon the unsafe ground of hypotheses, my supposition 
may, nevertheless, gain probability by an analogy from the 
German. In Gothic we have, comparatively, very few imper- 
sonate agreeing in character with those of the Latin and Greek 
languages. But while the religious nature of the Gothic litera- 



122 JULIUS GOES EL, 

ture makes it difficult to penetrate into the origin of these forms, 
we still find, in the present impersonals referring to phenomena 
of nature, mythological reminiscences similar to those in Latin 
and Greek. Such personifications are still to be noticed in a 
vague phantom -like form when speaking of the sky, es bewolkt 
sich^ klart sich auf, es besinni sick ob es regnen will, or when 
describing a strong wind we say, es zuiitet. These conceptions 
appear more clearly, however, in the language of the nursery 
where the children still say: Der Hebe Gott danneri.fahrt mil 
seinem Wagen im Himmel, regnet, etc. Der wilde Jaeger 
vmtet, etc. 

The Gothic shows that rignan * to rain ' is among the few 
impersonals and this seems to make it probable that rigneip, 
* it rains,' like vn and piuit, gradually lost its subject and thus, 
together with similar expressions, became the model of the 
numerous impersonals of the present German, and it is not a 
strange fact that the Hebrew, for example, contains almost no 
impersonals despite its inclination to begin the sentence with the 
predicate. This tendency offered sufficient logical and psycho- 
logical reasons for the development of impersonal expressions, 
but it seems to me that, religious considerations forbidding any 
theological, polytheistic personifications, there was not room for 
a development similar to that of other languages which ascribed 
these phenomena of nature to various deities. In single cases 
of modem German impersonals, we are still in the position of 
proving their origin from personal syntactic constructions. Thus, 
we can see how the impersonals es gibi, es gebrichi, were origi- 
nally used in their concrete sense with a subject with geben- pro- 
duce, gebrechen- having a break. Gradually the idea expressed 
by the verbs became detached fi-om a special subject and by a 
process of abstraction they developed into impersonals. If the 
theory is true that the impersonals have originated from a per- 
sonal construction, there cannot be any doubt that the German 
pronoun es affected originally the lost, or omitted, subject, but 
gradually degenerated into its present logical insignificance which 
we discovered above. J. Grimm (* Worterbuch ' iii, ii, 12,) 
seems to have recognized the former fact when he says : Die 
Sprache bediene sich des dent Neutrum uberhaupt eingepjiam- 
ten Begriffes der UnbesHmmiheU um das nur Andeuibare, 
Unbekannte oder Geheime zu bezeichnen. 

SiGWART has objected to the supposition that the neuter was 
especially fit to signify the L/n6eA!ann^,smce\Xvr^s^^^.^^\\ai^ 



ON THE IMPERSONAL VERB. 



123 



in common-speech usage as representing something known and 
definite. He is certainly right that the neuter, as such, doeis not 
contain the idea which Grimm seems to find in it. There can 
not be any doubt, however, that the poetical use of the imper- 
sonal and the pronoun es still reflects the reminiscence that es 
has taken the place of something mysterious and unknown. 
And having taken this place, es assumes in itself the idea of the 
mysterious, the effect of which is very well known to poets. 
There is absolutely no means in the German language by which 
Goethe could have produced this effect in his celebrated Hack- 
zeiislied^ describing the movements of the dwarfs : 

Da pfeift es, und geigt es und klinget und klirrt. 
Da ringelts und schleift es und rauschet und wirrt, 
Da pisperts und knisterts und Histerts und schwirrt. 

A like instructive example of this poetical usage of the im- 
personals is furnished by Schiller's " Tauch^r.*' Here, how- 
ever, the more modem and abstract character of the impersonal 
prevails. \vi es waUei und siedet und brauset und zischt, the 
accent is laid not so much on the mysterious es but rather on 
the various forms of action indicated by the verbs. I have 
found that the impersonal is strongly represented in lyric poetry 
since the sixteenth century. Of three hundred and fifty-two 
popular songs in Uhland's collection, sixty begin with an im- 
personal ; of six hundred and sixty in Bohme's 'Altdeutsche 
Liederbuch/ one hundred and fifty-one belong to the same 
class. 



11.— //a/rait Poetry and Patriotism at the Beginning of the 

Nineteenth Century,* 
Bv FREDERICK M. PAGE. 

PROFESSOR OP MODERN LANGUAGES IN THE UNIVERSITY OP THE 

SOUTH, SEWANEE, TENNESSEE. 

The subject of the present paper was chosen some time ago. 
As to why a preference was shown for this and not for something 
touching on the better known, more widely appreciated French 
and German, would lead me to answer with as much justice, 
but perhaps the same amount of human nature, as that other 
enlightened citizen of another free country: *'I am tired of 
hearing Aristides called the Just" — weary of learning that in 
spite of Volapuk, the revised English e tutti guanti, French is 
' still the language of the world, Parisian the language of the 
Gods ; worn out by the constant refrain, that German is the 
*' Open-Sesame " to all questions, physical, metaphysical, theo- 
logical, psychical. This feeling is legitimate not only with me, 
as Montaigne says, *' simply because // is it and / am /'' but 
from a wider point of view, including all who sympathize 
with struggling humanity, and the above-named title suggests a 
question replete with interest for its historical importance as 
well as its literary claims and one that cannot fail to be attrac- 
tive ; for, what was Italy's literary position at the beginning of 
thi§ century, when England, Germany, France, even Spain and 
America were sending into the arena champion after champion 
who recoiled before no question the human brain can propound ? 
What could be expected of a country overrun by foreign troops, 
split up into petty states, down-trodden and oppressed, without 
authority in the councils of Europe, without commerce, without 
colonies ? Could it ever repeat its superb record, still retain the 
ancient stamp and not belie Leopardi's proud claim, "Ancor 
per forza italian si noma, quanto ha piil grande la mortal 
natura ?*' 

It is a peculiar privilege indeed, to belong to the present time 

m . 

*In the notices on the five most imporunt Italian writers of the period specified, I have 

been guided, where individual opinion proved unsatisfiictory, principally by native critics. 

This plan, faulty as it may seem, since it purposely excluded very repuuble foreign author^ 

ities was adopted for several reasons, but, mainly, to force myself to be consistent with th« 

title of this paper, so far at least as to study from a national standpoint the lulian public 

sentiment with regturd to toe patriotism of the poett and the influence their writings 

deed upon the /brtunes of Iheir mother country. 



ITALIAN POETRY AND PATRIOTISM. 



125 



and thus be enabled to address an audience representing more 
particularly the broad-mindedness and tolerance, characteristic 
of our &vored age and people. With all due deference to " the 
good old times/' the above qualities were not prominent in the 
catalogue of their chief virtues, and should unkind fate thrust 
me back sixty years or more, I would probably hesitate to quote 
the Italian poet's words. They would sound to ears prejudiced 
un&vorably, as the empty bombast of a heated southern brain 
and not like the just claim of conscious merit. When he lived, 
the name of Italy awakened in the hearts of foreigners gener- 
ally little more than a pitying feeling akin to contempt, and 
called up litde more action than an expressive shrug of the 
shoulders. It is the singular prerogative of the Anglo-Saxon 
race, I believe, to be narrower than others in its judgments con- 
cerning foreign people, and, however much the Briton's un- 
worthy descendant may have departed lately in this respect from 
the type of his ancestor, the old-time American in the twenties 
and thirties of this century, sturdily upheld his nationality and 
disclaimed all connection with '' foreign trash.'' The native of 
this broad land, whether claiming lineage from Plymouth Rock 
or Pocahontas, found its pattern in the Boston dame who took 
the return packet from Liverpool because she would not live in 
a country where she was called a "furriner." A wonderful 
psychological process was doubdess involved in the gradual 
conversion of the real foreign type into the ideal bugaboo of 
home manufacture. The intellectual worth, the heroic qualities 
of other nations, appreciated by a few, were unknown to fhe 
mass or fell within the shadow of grotesque caricatures, the 
hideous of&pring of prejudice and ignorance. But nous avons 
changi taut fa^ and with a vengeance sometimes, amply atoning 
for the errors of our forefathers by fondly hugging the idea that 
six weeks among the Cockneys, or a trip up the Rhine, may 
have undone the work of seventy -six and converted us into the 
poorest of poor creatures, the counterfeit Briton, or bogus Ger- 
man. In spite of this, however ; in spite of the exaggerations 
of &shion, the bombast and self-glorification common to all 
countries, the lingering affection for the antiquated personalities 
of Mossoo, Milor Smit, the burgher of Pumpernickel and for that 
incomprehensible United-States citizen of recent English novels, 
with a vernacular, known perhaps in the tower of Babel but 
certainly no where else, tolerance and good sense have over- 
thrown the high walls of doubt and prejudice ; the man of the 



126 FREDERICK M. PAGE, 

present admits the fact of excellence existing beyond the limits 
of his own narrow state, as his more cultivated intellect is ready 
to ackriowledge its obligations to the very races his forefathers 
with inherited stubbornness had continued to despise. That 
this is mainly due to the propagation of education, the extensive 
study of foreign languages and the modern facilities for travel 
bannot be doubted. But there is still a deeper interest attached to 
this semi-unification of the nations of the earth, inasmuch as the 
spirit of the age makes each demonstration of regard, whether 
grotesque or sublime, the singularly pathetic interpreter of a 
sympathy that comes within its humanity, to the realization of 
that divine promise that some day there will be universally felt 
and shown by man " Good will to all men." 

It is, therefore, with confidence borrowed not from my own 
conceit that I trust to find ready appreciation from an American 
audience for my subject, since it concerns a portion of Italian 
literature, which, apart from its own intrinsic merits, represents a 
people that labored patiently, fought desperately, and suffered 
much in the attainment of that personal liberty and national 
independence so dear to all true men. In the development of 
the subject, it will be noticed that the discussion, — although 
mainly restricted to the patriotic element in the poetry of the 
first quarter of this century, unsupported as it is by character- 
istic extracts and almost stripped of technical criticisms, — is not 
intended to run upon a purely literary question, but rather 
aims at viewing the literature of the times in a broader sense ; 
namely, as the result of that mental activity which properly 
becomes the voice of a nation and is apt to influence, or be 
influenced by, the political and social condition of the people 
and period it represents. Nowhere in the history of literature, 
is the fact of this mutual dependence more strongly accentuated 
than in the best Italian poetry of the end of the eighteenth and 
the beginning of the nineteenth centuries. 

A tremendous necessity dimly shadowed in the minds of the 
people and handed down as a precious heir-loom from past ages, 
had become the principal inspiration of chosen spirits under 
whose interpretation the dominant idea received shape, color, 
expression in a multiplicity of forms, but all calculated to influ- 
ence and educate the nation's character. It would be a difficult 
task and far beyond the scope of thb paper to subject the 
period to minute dissection, and draw therefirom conclusions as 
to how much the peculiar turn of events \s mdebted to the inter- 



ITALIAN POETR Y AND PA TRIO TISM, 



127 



vention of individuals, or how the ideas of gifted minds pre- 
cipitate revolutions in thought and politics. A generalization of 
facts, however, drawn from a study of the Italian yrriters of the 
times leads inevitably to the conclusion that, whether of the 
classical, arcadian or romantic schools, they nearly all seem 
actuated by one absorbing desire : the establishment of Italian 
independence, or at least of Italian unity — the idea with which 
are associated the greatest and most revered names since Dante 
and which had united so many diverse epochs with one thought, 
one hope. Whether expressed in the * de Monarchia,' in the 
' Principe,' in the * Tirranide,' or in the tragic and lyric poetry 
of the present century ; whether it meant something shadowy 
and immaterial, a restoration purely idealistic built upon wild 
conceptions of what liberty meant — is certainly not to the point. 
The idea corresponds to the national sentiment, whose watch- 
words were ever the same : Italy, Unity. 

Che libera tutta, 
O fia serva fra TAlpi e il mare, 
Una d*arme, di lingua, d'altare. 
Di memorie, di sangue, di cor. 

A review of the Italian literature of the first thirty years of this 
century in connection with the historical occurrences of that 
eventful period and the social condition of the nation, immedi- 
ately suggests the accompanying question, as to how much 
public depression and national slavery affect the productions of 
the brain, and whether any mental activity can exist under the 
scorching glance of an iniquitous Inquisition. 

Other countries, other customs. In colder climes, the up- 
heavals from an existing state of things may produce a semi- 
paralization of the higher faculties. Physical energy in periods 
of violence apparently absorbs the attention of the most gifted 
individuals, as in times of oppression they sink into a mortal 
lethargy. But, at no epoch in the history of France, Italy and 
even Spain, if we except the interval of anarchy immediately 
following the downfall of the Roman Empire and the over- 
whelming avalanche of the French revolution, no period in the 
literary history of those countries is marked by total literary 
stagnation. The end of the eighteenth century and the begin- 
ning of the ninteenth were striking examples of this. It 
appeared as if the elastic Italian mind could not be compressed 
out of shape by any oppressive rule, nor did the native shrewd- 
ness of that reinarkable race give way entudy X.0 VV^^ rnXo^k.-ar 



128 FREDERICK M, PAGE. 

tion of the Napoleonic era ; yet, it would be strange indeed if 
the vicissitudes of Italy's uncertain existence had not given a 
peculiar tone to its literature ; for, at no other time does popu- 
lar opinion, even in the face of the tyrannical Bourbon, or 
worse Austrian, more deeply agitate the question of the moral 
and civil condition of man. Whether it appears covered by the 
silver-gilt sentimentality of the Metastasian, or boldly exposed 
in the virile accents of Alfieri and Foscolo, there is ever 
the very evident stamp of regeneration, the desire at least, to 
cast off the hampering shell of moral and civil slavery. Through 
every expression of thought, deep or frivolous, gay or serious, 
runs a golden thread, invisible to all save those who felt the 
absorbing interest binding Italian hearts in one great brother- 
hood. 

The political, social and literary history of Italy embraced 
between 1785 to 1830, should be divided into two periods and 
according to the predominant ideas and historical events growing 
out of the times. The first, roughly estimated, ranges from 1785 
to 1800, and the second includes the career of Napoleon and 
continues up to the French July revolution. No two epochs so 
closely joined could be more diametrically opposed, or stand 
out against each other in stronger contrast In the first, appears 
the Metastasian worid made up principally of the errors, the 
narrowness, the preposterous pretentions of a semi-feudal aristoc- 
racy without power, and the debasement of a populace without 
will or hope ; — a society, gay, artificial, thoughdess, to all appear- 
ance hurrying on to ruin, talking of feudal privileges, claiming 
heroic qualities and trying to forget its real insignificance in the 
frivolous pursuits of petty court life. This period, preceding 
as it did the great battles of the Revolution, has been considered, 
nevertheless, a time of rest for laboring Italy, as if to give her 
breath to pass through the marvellous events which were im- 
pending. It was also an epoch of reforming princes who, 
pushed forward by the philosophic and social doctrines emana- 
ting from France, entered with the church into a mortal struggle 
which lead to the sacrifice of the latter's strongest supporters — 
the Jesuits. These events, however, of such signal importance 
to Italy's future, passed over the land without awakening special 
interest among the people. The bulk of the population gave itself 
up to enjoyment of the material advantages of a comparatively 
peaceful respite. The upper classes, prinked, powdered and 
bewigged, continued to exist in the vapid illusions which a cor- 



ITALIAN POETRY AND PATRIOTISM 



129 



responding court literature generated. Everything with them 
seemed to be reduced to puff, powder, paint, train, wig, sword, 
shepherd-crooks and flutes. Dame and gallant, passing the lives 
of Sybarites, only relieved the monotony of their idyllic masque- 
rading by indulging in classic reminiscences : the former would 
claim the virtue of Lucretia and the nobility of Cornelia, while 
the latter cried lustily as he tapped his jewelled snuff-box, " I 
am the son of Marcus Cato, a foe to tyrants, and my country's 
friend." 

It would be unjust however to stigmatize this period, which 
was also that of Goldoni as being devoid of literary worth, or 
of having entirely arrested the steady evolution of the Italian 
national character. Side by side with the false tinsel, was a 
golden element at work in thought or action, which constantly 
brought into play the more solid qualities of the Italian intellect 
Goethe, in his travels, deplores the absence in his own country 
of the numerous Academies and Literary Institutions he visited 
in Italy. Such illustrious testimony will sufKce to show that a 
reaction had set in ; the sentimental naiads and dryads, the 
eternal Daphnes and Chloes had not failed to satiate the public 
taste. The intellectual life of Europe found its way into the 
parlors, the theatres, the Academies of Italy. The dim heroes 
of the northern mists disputed with the natural man of Rous- 
seau ; the Qarissas and Pamelas danced hand in hand with the 
Orosmans and the Tancreds ; the hurly-burly of ideas crossed 
and recrossed the land. Every one philosophized, and gravely 
exposed a theory without its ever occurring to any one, how- 
ever, to apply the lesson to his own condition. Such was the 
Arcadian simplicity, withal that one might be led to echo 
Capaneo's *' it were a pity to bring revolutions upon them ;" it 
was the necessary prologue, the mental gymnastics of a nation 
preparing unconsciously for greater things. Without the polit- 
ical agitation of subsequent events, it might have deteriorated 
into fruidess dilettanteism ; as it was, it prevented the Italians 
from sinking into mental apathy, as the only fitting counterpart 
to their political nullity. No very profound knowledge of his- 
tory is necessary to get at the cause of this political weakness. 

The sneering remark of an English Premier, early in this 
century, that Italy's unification would be a disturbing element 
to the peace of Europe, was after all a concise way of stating 
a policy adopted towards her by other countries from the early 
middle ages down. After the peace of Acquisgrana, the rulers 



I30 



FREDERICK M, PA GE. 



of the petty Italian States found themselves strengthened and, 
stubbornly adhering to the already exploded idea of royal in- 
fallibility, clung tenaciously to the paternal form of govern- 
ment. They could scarcely be called, in the Washingtonian 
sense, fathers of their countr>' ; but considering their foreign ori- 
gin in many instances, step^fathers of a country of some one else. 
Paternal government, aye ! but scarely of the kind existing in 
the German Fatherland and so comically exaggerated by Hein- 
RiCH Heine. There, the paternal Majesty, Highness, Potent 
Serenissimus, or Durchlaucht, could pull his night-cap over his 
eyes, and put out his light with the complacent feeling that his 
bit of a candle would light him safely to bed for many a night to 
come, and that his head and night-cap would nod "good 
morning, my children," to ever obedient and humble subjects.' 
In Italy, the prince was not so "sdr de son fait;" he never 
pulled his night-cap over his eyes ; one eye, at least, had to do 
sentinel duty. He never knew where his head might be pil- 
lowed the following night and therefore took precautions accord- 
ingly. It was, as may be imagined, on one side a step-father's 
care with a greedy eye on the children's property ; on the other 
side, the passive, unloving obedience of sullen children waiting 
patiently for the parent's death. 

The Napoleonic era swept over the land like a tornado, a revela- 
tion to some, a realization of prophecy to others, bringing destruc- 
tion to the rotten fabric of antique conditions, shaking Italy out 
of the deadly apathy into which she threatened to sink, and filling 
her youth with a tempestuous enthusiasm for glory, freedom and 
hope. With what result? Upon the burning fields of their 
own country and amidst the snows of Russia, they found glory, 
not their own. In the selfish policy craftily hidden by the 
military despot, they found fi*eedom in fetters. In the downfall 
of that very power which constantly fed their national aspirations 
with great promises, they found their hopes deceived. But do 
not miscalculate the beneficent results of the Napoleonic revo- 
lution. Whatever the intention of that phenomenon in his grasp 
after self-aggrandisement, Divine Providence carrying out his 
own inscrutable purposes, provided that the corrupt seed, sown 
in blood, should produce golden fruit. 

When the Imperial eagle fell, never to rise again, at Waterloo ; 
the vultures swooped back upon their victim and prepared to 
tear fair Italy limb fi-om limb, but they no longer found the 
passive, half-inanimate form yielding with cowardly submission. 



ITA LI AN FOE TR Y AND PA TRIO TISM. 131 

where it thought resistance vain — no; Bourbon and Austrian 
brought back, it is true, the axe, the rope — the emblems of their 
rule — but they found the Italians, not as they had left them a 
few years back, a race no longer composed of frivolous courtier, 
truckling burgher and stolid serf, but of men with a positive if 
confused notion of the dignity of manhood : men who, for 
twenty years past, had fought in the name of liberty and glory 
upon every red field of Europe, men who had felt deep in their 
hearts the true lessons of the French Revolution when stripped 
of its horrors, and remembered, as they would, the names of 
loved ones long forgotten, that the magic watchwords, Italy 
untie, had been in olden times the melodious key-note struck 
by the hands of poet and sage, upon the harp strung with the 
heart-chords of Italy. And what part did the poets and writers 
of this period have in the popular movement ? It is no fanciful 
exaggeration of feeling that induces one to attribute the chief 
merit of the achievement of Italian liberty to the gifted few 
who, with superb talents or divine genius, instilled their own 
spirits into all grades and, with persistent, self-sacrificing cour- 
age, repeated to them the sublime lessons of national regenera- 
tion. Charles Albert, Victor Emmanuel, Garibaldi, 
Cavour and many others, heroes and statesmen, in the days of 
active measures, consummated the work and realized the hopes 
of ages. This never would have been ; they never would have 
succeeded, had the Italian heart and mind not been moulded by 
the noble band of teachers headed by Alfieri, Foscolo, 
Manzoni and Leopardl 

When one turns to the literature of the first period mentioned 
above ; namely, the one preceding the coming of Bonaparte 
to Italy, one finds that the first important seceder from the ranks 
of the old society was Alfieri, a gigantic personality, embody- 
ing all that had been lacking for several centuries to the Italians 
and that had rendered their downfall inevitable ; namely, sincerity 
and strength of convictions. Since the time of Dante, Vit- 
torio Alfieri is the first poet to deserve the title of national ; 
with him the pristine vigor of sentiment is regained and some- 
thing more : as Massimo d'Azeglio says, " He discovered 
Italy as Columbus, America;" he resuscitated the conception 
of Italian unity, prophesied with conviction the realization of 
what the Italians had hitherto treated as idle dreams, and dwelt 
with insistence upon the certainty that " force would come to 
destroy what reason had already condemned." Devoid of cer- 



132 



FREDERICK M, PAGE. 



tain Acuities essential to a poet, he was urged on to labor by 
the "natural impulse" which, defined in his own words, "is a 
boiling-up in the heart and mind, for which there is never 
found peace nor place ; an insatiable thirst to do good or gain 
glory ; a reputing of all things done as nothing ; a fiery and res- 
olute desire, a necessity to be first among the best or to be 
nothing. This is the proud and divine fever of the mind and 
the heart from which alone can come the truly beautiful, the 
truly great." Alfieri is also national because of his having 
given Italy the tragic theatre she lacked. His tragedies, fi'om 
the moment of their appearance, were considered a great liter- 
ary event, but they did not exercise at the same time the patri- 
otic and national influence the poet had expected, and this 
partial failure induced him, in despair, to dedicate his labors to 
the future Italian people. Many circumstances conspired against 
the ready acceptation, or comprehension, of Alfieri's patriotic 
sentiments and bold hopes. One of the principal was the 
absence of a capital which might have been a centre of gathering, 
a head -spring of thoughts and a linguistic school. The tragic 
Muse was not sought after or beloved by the people. If occa- 
sionally some troop, with actors collected from all sections of 
Italy, recited a tragedy, it was received with uproarious laughter 
at the comical effect of hearing Agamemnon rant in Bolognese 
dialect, or Pylades swear in Venetian eternal friendship to 
Orestes, who answered in Neopolitan. Alfieri's own language 
was also severely criticised as being too inflated, too unnatural, 
especially when his main object was to inculcate into the minds 
of his hearers thoughts that were unfamiliar to them. Just or 
unjust he calmly answered such criticism with startling brevity : 
Mi trovan duro? Anch'io lo so— Pensar li fo. 

But when Alfieri returned from Paris in 1792, he found 
his tragedies on all the stages of Italy; and what concerned 
him more, the nation awakening to the meaning of liberty, 
honor and country. He has been accused of overmuch classi- 
cism when, in truth, he is but a classicist in appearance. His 
tragedies were written long before he became acquainted with 
the masterpieces of iEschylus and Sophocles. The fcict of his 
pieces being stripped of the cumbersome personnel, the stage 
effects and the appurtenances of modem drama, is nothing 
more than another manifestation of his peculiar method. This 
.consists in concentrating the interest upon the principal figure, 
which embodies the one great idea the poet aims at presenting 



ITALIAN POE TR Y AND PA TRIO TISM. 



133 



to his fellow-men. It is, therefore, simply a classic mask under 
which the modem speaks. Whatever motive may be adduced 
for this mode, the one most consistent with Alfieri's character 
seems to point to a conscious deference to an heroic age, in an 
appeal to the noble characters of ancient history, to ratify his 
doctrines of liberty and government. The classic concentrative 
force can be observed in his language, but the resemblance rests 
exclusively upon the severe simplicity, the energy and rapidity 
with which the thought, unaided by ornamentation and depen- 
dent upon its native strength, is brought forth upon its own 
merits. No! Alfieri did not borrow his language from the 
Greeks ; he had upheld Dante as his model. With the latter, 
however, strength is ever allied to a grace which has no place 
in the stern Alfierian tragedies. It could not have been igno- 
rance, or want of poetic taste, however, because the alliance of 
strength and grace is found often in the more familiar style of 
his lyrics and letters ; it arose, probably, more from a nervous 
irritability, a desire to say briefly and even at the risk of obscu- 
rity, what was upon his heart. Thus the dramas are all Al- 
fieri ; in them he has breathed the fire of his political pas- 
sion ; he has communicated to his people his hatred, his hopes, 
his dreams : — collosal aspirations, only half determined in the 
poet's own mind, growing out of the suggestions of Italy's past, 
and, without regard to practical application, are fused into his 
hopes for Italy's future. 

• With rigid consistency clinging to the principal thoughts, he 
cares little whether, subjected to development, they may lead to 
the republican forms of Athens and Rome, or to the temperate 
order of the British constitutional government. He lacks the 
calm, profound glance that plunges into the science of life and 
reveals its secrets, nor does he possess the practical shrewdness 
that makes the Italian a consummate statesman ; yet, with all 
his defects, Alfieri was right : he gained what he aimed at 
His strength lay in a sublime conviction, which, ceaselessly 
repeated, finally overwhelms all doubt. As a poet and as a citi- 
zen, he is the greatest Italian of his times ; his heroic figure has 
been placed not by Italy alone, but by Europe, upon a vacant 
pedestal by the side of Dante, Petrarch, Tasso and Ariosto. 
It was amidst the booming of cannon and the acclamations 
welcoming the self-styled Liberator of Italy that the Italian 
literature entered into the nineteenth century. All the horrors 
of war ; the gutting of the public treasures ; the wholesale plun- 



134 FREDERICK M, PAGE. 

der of works of art ; the enormous ambition of Bonaparte, only 
half-concealed by the craftiness inherited from his Italian ances- 
try, were insufficient to quench in the Italians the delirious 
enthusiasm which the name of liberty awakened. As one passes 
from the age of fermentation, represented by Alfieri, to that of 
action, it seems a natural transition, a result long foreshadowed, 
nor does the appearance upon the scene of a worthy successor 
to the great poet cause surprise. Ugo Foscolo is said to have 
been, after Alfieri, the one who exercised most influence upon 
the spirit of the Italian youth. He shares with Alfieri and 
Parini the glory of having regenerated the literature, and, 
what is better, the Italian nation. His short and brilliant career, 
through the vicissitudes of the kingdom of Italy ; his hatred of 
Napoleon ; his flight to England, have surrounded his life with 
fabulous celebrity. 

Leopardi and Foscolo would form an interesting parallel 
study. The very antithesis of each other in character, temper- 
ament and career ; the one doomed to inactivity, the other rush- 
ing audaciously through that stormy period they, nevertheless, 
have many points in common ; in truth, to such a degree that the 
name of the one suggests that of the other. In both, we find 
demonstrated the effect of the irradicable melancholy, the 
WeltschmerZy at work upon individuals differently constituted 
in soul and mind. Doubtless much of this real, or perhaps self- 
delusive sadness, was not subjective and sprang from political 
disillusions, as well as from the sentimental sickliness of the 
times. FoscoLo's bold spirit, however, led him to look mis- 
fortune square in the face. His lamentations are those of an 
unconquerable heart delighting, in danger, to feel its own 
strength ; and he ever professed the maxim, "Misfortune refines 
the virtues of strong magnanimous souls : 

O nati al pianto — E alia fatica, si vertCl vi h guida 
Dalla fonte del duol serge il conforto.** 

Neither of the poets above mentioned attained his unques- 
tioned perfection of form and style till after painful effort. Leo- 
pardi in his early youth, absorbed in phenomenal studies, 
scarcely gave his own intellect time to create ; it was only after 
passing through various stages of intellectual progression, that he 
reached the plenitude of his force, and found the true Leopar- 
dian poetry. Foscolo likewise shows in his earliest poems 
the defect which, according to a noted British statesman, dimin- 
ishes with every added day of one's life ; namely, youth. With 



ITALIAN POETR V AND PA TPIOTISM. 135 

him the defect was intensified by an ardent, impetuous tempera- 
ment and by his being placed in the midst of activity, admira- 
tion and &me that gave him no leisure for reflection, or any 
possibility of sound self-criticism. His genius, however, did 
not wait for the tardy effects of time or the purifying, but often 
destructive, results of criticism. With mar\'ellous rapidity, it 
passed from youthful inexperience to maturity. The change, 
spontaneous and sudden, seemed to proceed firom an inner con- 
sciousness, co-ordinating at once the confused and scattered 
notions of his art. In this assertion of individuality, he strip- 
ped himself of the cumbersome Arcadian style which tripped 
up, even then, many of the best Italian writers. The influence 
of his profound classical learning made him ever cling to 
classic forms and deck his modem thoughts in the flowing garb 
of the ancients. This should be deplored as it may have estab- 
lished barriers to his genius and clipped his wings ; it made him, 
however, attain a purity and suppleness unknown even to 
Parini. 

The curious combination found in this poet between the 
ancient culture, coming from his learning and sesthetic tastes, 
and the modern inspiration proceeding from innate character 
and environment, moulded itself into strong, passionate, heart- 
moving verses written with an almost aggravating classic purity 
that could derive only from the cool judgment which never for- 
sook him in the most terrible moments. In a letter to Pinde- 
MONTE on the subject of the artistic method and the philoso- 
phic intent to be found in the " Carme alle Grazie,*' he con- 
denses his principal doctrines in a definition which can be applied 
to most of his poetical works; namely, " that he had attempted 
to reconcile lyric poetry with didactic, to uphold historical and 
mythological traditions, moral and metaphysical theories, so that 
his poems might be of benefit to the heart of the reader and to 
the mind of the artist." 

Let no one suppose, however, that the poet's aspirations 
remained strictly within such close limits as these ; his poems 
are not cool, metaphysical abstractions : carme, sonnet, sermon, 
or ode— all find their theme in the living questions of the day. 
These are treated with a never-failing enthusiasm and a warmth 
of expression which stirs even now, after many years, the slug- 
gish blood within one's veins. It is not as the classic poet, or 
as the disciple of Homer and Dante, that Foscolo is most 
attractive in the eyes of posterity, but as the Warrior Bard. 



136 FREDERICK M, PAGE, 

" Literature became in his hands an instrument of war more than 
with Parini and Alfieri, who lived rather as spectators than 
as actors in the political struggle of those days. As a young 
man, he allowed himself to be dazzled by the promises of the 
French, but, soon disenchanted, he never ceased to warn the 
Italians against trusting the foreigners and to urge them to 
smother ancient discords and gather in the strength of the 
nation.'' 

The classic forms were at no time stronger in Italy than when 
the cry of liberty rung out from one end of the country to the 
other. With such as FoscoLO, Monti and other exponents, it 
seemed as if the limits of the art of writing had been reached ; 
but a change came. When Lombardy fell once more under 
the dominion of Austria and liberty, even in name, seemed to 
be killed, a fact manifested itself that the Italians explain by the 
law of contraries : liberty of the mind became greater in pro- 
portion as the liberty of action was restricted. It is also worthy 
of notice, they say, that the Romantic school had different ends 
in Germany and Italy. In the former, the minds of the people 
became for a time, at least, deadened to the recollection of the 
struggle for freedom, initiated by the war against Napoleon, in 
the contemplation of the religion and chivalry of the middle 
ages. In Italy, on becoming the priestess of literary innova- 
tions. Romanticism educated the spirits in the idea of political 
liberties. 

Alexander Manzoni's name is indissolubly connected with 
this new school, as being its initiator even before its doctrines 
were known in Italy ; he has defined its understanding by say- 
ing, "that poetry and literature, generally, ought to set for 
themselves utility as a scope, truth as a subject, and interest as 
a means." To use the words of Zanella : — 

He began as a lyric poet and continued as a dramatist, his- 
torian, novelist, philpsopher and philologian. The constant 
Erivilege of all his work is wisdom, the perfect accord of the 
Lculties required in the writer, for which it is difficult to say 
whether Manzoni is greater in the splendor of his feincy, in the 
depth of his sentiment, or in the maturity of his judgment His 
two tragedies, 'Carmagnola' and 'Adelchi' belong rather to 
the lyric than to the dramatic sphere, from the beauty and excel- 
lence of the choruses, the scarcity of action and the abundance 
of sentiment. To two things had the ruin of Italy been attrib- 
uted : internal discord and Uie hope placed in the foreigner. In 
the 'Carmagnola' the first is deplored and in the 'Adelchi/ the 
second. Manzoni had a profound kno^\ed^^ o( ^^ V&sxoir^ q( 



ITALIAN POETRY AND PATRIOTISM. 



137 



Italy and intended that the stage should become a school for 
the people, as Alfieri had sought to make it a battle-field against 
tyrants, and he introduced with that idea an exactness, a fidelity 
to real events which stirred up adverse criticism on the part 
of Goethe who contended that popular traditions were better 
suited to drama. 

Manzoni, on the other hand, says, with reason perhaps, 
when we remember his main object, that the people should 
know true history and not the legend. A fine question could be 
debated here with regard to the relative merits of the legend 
and history as applied to the arts — a question that would insen- 
sibly glide into a consideration of what is legend and what is 
history, and whether the one is not often as good as the other 
as long as you believe it. This is dangerous ground and we 
retire with the reminder, that all who have read the recent war 
papers in the Century and find in every instance, that both 
sides won, especially our side, may well doubt the infallibility of 
history written by the most conscientious men. — It was in re- 
flecting upon the sad events of 1821, and passing in his mind 
the private and public wretchedness of those times, that the idea 
occurred to Manzoni to make the unhappy condition of his 
people the subject of a romance. After five years of deep 
study of the laws and constitution of the gloomy seventeenth cen- 
tury ; after having studied his localities carefully and gathered 
a wonderful store of domestic scenes and a perfect treasure of 
familiar language, he produced the greatest of his works, the 
* Promessi Sposi.' It may be appropriate to recall here the 
opinion of Goethe on this wonderful work: — 

" Four elements," he says in his colloquies with Eckermann, 
"concur to make Manzoni's romance so excellent Manzoni 
in the first place is a superb historian ; thus the poem acquires 
a dignity and solidity, which places it far above the books which 
claim the name of romances. The Catholic religion, besides, 
has rendered him a ^eat service, by placing before him many 
poetic situations, which a Protestant might not have. In the 
third place, his soul had suffered much in the political move- 
ments in Italy against the foreigner, and although he has not 
entered into the struggle, he has, nevertheless, witnessed the 
miseries of many of his friends. Finally, a &vorable thing for 
the romance, the action is developed in the beautiful regions of 
Lake Como, which the poet knew from his childhood and whose 
natural features were ever fresh to him, like family scenes ; thus, 
there is a clearness of design in the places described, which is 
not the least merit of his work." 

Again, the great German said, that Manzoni's romance sur- 



138 FREDERICK M, PAGE, 

passed anything known of its kind. In a comparison between 
Manzoxi and Walter Scott, Chateaubriand says : — 

In the former, there is something more than in the latter. An 
Italian commenting on the above opinion has developed it as fol- 
lows ; — the Scotch writer aims principally at pleasing the reader ; 
his fancy and his coloring are marvellous, but they do not make 
a deep impression on the soul. He has the qualities of Ariosto, 
his favorite author, less the refined irony, in which Manzoni is 
equal to the Ferrarese poet. Moreover, the Italian has raised 
the romance to the dignity of a poem which embraces in its 
immense limits all human conditions and all those of the soul. 
He does not, as is often the case with the Scot, surprise the 
reader with the peculiarity of the events ; Manzoni seeks univer- 
sal beauty in common circumstances, and in the story of two 
young peasants he weaves the history of all that century with a 
simplicity of narration and with a naturalness of observation 
unequalled by any work ancient or modern. In the * Promessi 
Sposi/ you pass from the events of private to those of public 
life ; from peasants to princes ; from assassins to prelates ; from 
peace to sedition ; from innocence to misdeed ; from the monas- 
tery to the tavern ; from love to terror ; from marriage to death, 
and always without an effort, always with a quiet serenity of judg- 
ment, which, in all the great and small events of life, adores the 
designs of providence. 

PiETRO GiORDANi exclaimed that he would like it to be read 
in Italy **a Dan usque ad Nepthale,'' preached in all the 
churches and in all the hostelries, and learnt by heart. The 
seeming irreverent tone of this admiration may be explained 
away by the knowledge that in Italy it is called the * Iliad of 
Christianity.' The bold declaration of faith it contains, is not 
its least attractive side, coming, as it did, at a period when the 
Christian religion was still suffering from the wounds inflicted 
by its many enemies in the last century, A volume which, 
upon every page, leads one to love and reverence faith, virtue, 
home, charity, pardon and resignation, is well worth the elabo- 
rate works of a Voltaire when, disguised in the garb of lib- 
erty and tolerance, they preach doctrines that led to anarchy, 
public and private dishonor. Manzoni justly calculated the 
most important scope of the romance, resting it upon the well 
grounded belief that noble thoughts and valuable precepts can 
be disseminated through its agency with greater ease than by 
means of a book of philosophic, or religious precepts. 

The limits and object of this paper will not permit one more 
than to touch upon Manzoni's linguistic theories, although one 
might find their connection with the subject under discussion in 



ITALIAN POE TR Y AND PA TRIO TISM. 1 39 

the maxim he ever entertained, that the unity, independence 
and culture of Italy could never attain completeness until the 
Italian language could be declared one and indivisible. For the 
attainment of this, he advocated the adoption of the Florentine 
exclusively, in opposition to the opinion of numerous writers 
and philologists who contended that the language of Italy must 
proceed from all its sections, that the best writers from all parts 
should be consulted not only for the purpose of purifying and 
elevating the national idiom, but as the truest manifestation of 
the unification of Italy. In the application of his linguistic 
theories to the revised edition of the * Promessi Sposi,' Man- 
ZONI has not always been happy in his corrections, although, 
on the whole, the elimination of much that was pure Lombard 
has been considered by competent critics of advantage to the 
work and to its numerous readers. — Manzoni is, altogether, con- 
sidered by the Italians the greatest of their modern writers. 
This greatness, they say, rests upon the direction he has given 
to their literature, and upon the claim that no other one has 
done more for his country or his religion. 

While Manzoni gave impulse to a new school of poetry and 
rallied around him such leaders as Grossi, Berchet and 
Silvio Pellico, there lived in the marches of Ancona " a deli- 
cate, studious youth, as yet only recommendable for profound 
erudition, but destined to become the greatest luminary of the 
classic school." It must be ever with mingled feelings of 
sadness and delight that the sympathetic reader turns to 
GiACOMO Leopardi as one who suffered in this life from nature, 
despair and poverty, a triple tyranny which persecuted him till 
an early death freed his body from pain and answered the ques- 
tions that tortured his poor soul. This history is a pregnant 
illustration of the sad reality, that in the dual nature of man, 
the higher with its complex attributes can be subjected to a 
more than physical torture by the ills of the flesh, and that 
under the wasting influence of black despair, the moral faculties, 
the religious instincts and even the intellect are weakened till 
man passes by easy transition from the comfort of religious faith 
and the confidence in his fellow man to the wretchedness of 
doubt. The subjective evil becomes objective, is communicated 
in fancy to the world and creates in the sufferer's mind a sys- 
tem. What might seem a heartless analysis, a prying into the 
intimate life of a great man, is often a necessary psychological 
study, and is justified, in this case, by the fact that» outside of 



I40 



FREDERICK M. PA GE. 



the state of organization, there were considerations which, taken 
in connection with it, may explain the despairing tone in the 
writings of this extraordinary and unfortunate being. 

Sensitive, loving, pure as a stainless maiden, he was possessed 
of a sickliness of spirit engendered by a morbid contemplation 
of self till, finally, he gave himself up to the " ferocious volup- 
tuousness " of doubt, trying, and perhaps in vain, to smother 
the very whisperings of hope. For Leopardi was not a pes- 
simisie d*apparai\ he lived and died in conformity with his sad 
doctrine, in evident contrast with the totally theoretical despair 
of those philosophers who have governed so well their lives and 
administered at once the temporal and the spiritual offices. 
He asks himself the terrible question of the utility of life^ as if 
the many generations of men had come into the world only to 
vanish, like the waters passing on, leaving no trace behind and 
going — whither ? He would have nothing to do with the mys- 
teries of a faith he had abandoned ; but his revolt was only half- 
hearted, devoid of Promethean defiance. If he did not bend 
his head, he never sneered at the mystery of the cross ; *tis not 
the cold atheist who thinks to abdicate his own throne in 
acknowledging the supremacy of a God, nor the temporizer who 
keeps his God on hand within call and, like Louis XI, places 
him in a closet lest he discover too much villainy. Unlike his 
contemporary, Schopenhauer, he had not reduced theories to 
an inexorable system, advocating universal destruction. It was 
only in the blackest moments that he proclaims the irredeemable 
and the &tal with the desperation of his Brutus. These moments 
past, he becomes essentially humanitarian and would constitute 
himself the apostle of human fi-aternity and solidarity, in order 
to propagate a species of stoicism, and preach that by combina- 
tion of effort the evils of this existence can be mitigated. He 
would have us understand that his philosophic system can be 
resumed in the formula: "lam, consequendy I suffer," — ^but 
whoever looks closer, sees Leopardi "nearer faith than 
science," almost envying those who believe in God and in the 
immortality of the soul. 

In vain, he tried to oppose to the blind effort of matter a stoic 
resignation, when he uttered the heart-rendering cry : " I am 
weary of life, I have no other hope but in death ;" with the same 
inconsistency he clings desperately to the existence he abhorred. 
There, again, in the lack of stability, in the irrational outbursts 
of impatience, in the eternal scoldings at l?tav\d^ticfc fox novcati- 



ITALIAN POE TR Y AND PA TRIO TISM. 141 

centrating the rays of His sunshine upon his existence, one can 
see, though dimly, the half-hearted doubter. But what is the 
common property of ordinary mortals, passed unrecognized by 
this prodigy of genius ? He lost sight of what constitutes the two 
apparendy antagonistic principles so admirably reconciled in the 
Christian religion: man's affranchisement from the world and 
man in his direct responsibility to God, and the imposed duties 
of practical religion manifested by works. 

It would be unjust not to mention further, in defense of the 
sad poet, his poverty, his disillusions and vain longings. Only 
too often repeated in the world's book of shame, is the tale of 
woe caused by poverty. Leopardi in this respect could stand 
by the side of Cervantes : like the latter, he is the subject of 
volume after volume of commentary and criticism; whereas, 
during his lifetime, it occurred to few that the mortal must pre- 
cede the immortal. With feeble body racked by constant pain ; 
with mind tormented by unanswered questions; with heart 
panting for the love that never came, this man was confronted 
daily for many years by the dread reality of want — want that 
mercilessly pulled down his highest aspirations. Poverty, they 
say, is not disgraceful, soit, but at least it is bad, — bad when it 
attacks the humble being thinking alone of the physical neces- 
sities of life. Judge how ghastly its effects, when it flings heavy 
chains around the necks of those whom God seems to have 
singled out as leaders of men. Again, if it be true that the 
higher organizations with their more elevated conception of 
ideals feel proportionally the non-attainment of them, we can 
understand, if not explain, the cankerous sorrow which gnawed 
at Leopardi's sensitive heart. In common with the youth of 
Italy, he had entertained bright expectations for the welfare of 
his country, and, although his patriotism is idealistic, expressed 
in burning verses, it did not fail of its effect upon the impres- 
sionable sons of Italy. In this, Leopardi deserves a place of 
honor by the side of Parini, Alfieri, Manzoni, Foscolo and 
Berchet. But soon face to face with the misfortunes of his 
country, either miscalculating the progress of national emanci- 
pation, or giving way to his fatalistic distemper, he ceased to 
share the confidence of those noble patriots and remained 
sceptical and discouraged. He did more. Carried away by 
bitter disappointment he turned gloomily to the past to seek 
the glorious record which, to him, Italy's future could never 
repeat. — Why dwell upon the gloomy side of Leofa^rdi's Ufe^ 



142 FREDERICK M, PAGE, 

but that it is the most prominent, and invests him with an 
interest which his career as a philologian, or even as a poet, 
could never have awakened. In the touching words of the 
Attic Philosopher : " Sad progress and perhaps great lesson. 
Who knows whether a readier yielding to the one who rules the 
world, would not have spared him that anguish. Perhaps hap- 
piness is only possible here below on the condition of living 
like the child, confiding in the goodness of the Divine Father." 
— According to another great writer : ** It was not from slow 
corruption of the heart, nor from a desire to hide his own faults 
in the faults of the whole human kind, that Leopardi's poetry 
came forth. He saw his country fallen from its ancient great- 
ness and the flower of its youth dragged away to perish miser- 
ably ; he saw the governments of Europe coldly dispose of his 
beloved Italy, and wept tears of passionate grief because he 
could do nothing to help her." It is not strange that the curse of 
despair which is coeval with humanity, should have fallen upon 
him with all its crushing might and made existence seem to him 
like an unmerited punishment. 

Although the limits prescribed to this paper only allow one to 
glance at the giants of literature who, like the towering Alpine 
peaks, reflect the light of God when all else is wrapped in gloom^, 
it would be an injustice to the great names w6 have cited, not to 
place by their side that of another who, by his talents, his 
patriotism, his sufferings, deserved a place upon the golden 
annals of Italy's martyrs. 

" Silvio PeLlico, says Zanella, contributed to bring into 
abomination, not only to Italy but to the whole of Europe, the 
Austrian dominion. His * Prigioni,' or the story of his barbar- 
ous imprisonment by the Austrians, is the best known Italian 
book in Europe. The touching simplicity of the narrative, ren- 
dered sweeter by the spirit of Christian resignation which fills 
the book, has moved all generous hearts and has made the 
cruel tyranny of Austria more abhorrent than the most furious 
invective. The national spirit which pervades all the writers of 
this period is not lacking to this gentle soul. In his * Francesca 
da Rimini,' the manly accents of patriotism which fill that trag- 
edy were ever received, in spite of the Austrian bayonet, with 
the most frenzied applause, especially those verses of Paolo : 

Per chi di stragi si macchi6 il mio brando ? 
Per lo straniero. E non ho patria forse 
Cui sacro sia de'cittadini il sangue ? 



ITALIAN POETR Y AND PA TRIO TISM, 143 

Per te, per te, che cittadini hai prodi, 
Italia mia, combatter6, se oltraggio 
Ti movera I'invidia. E il piil gentile 
Terren non sci di quanti scalda il sole ? 
D'ogni beirarte non sei madre, Italia ? 
Polve d'eroi non ^ la polve tua?" 

Here I must pause, hesitating and dissatisfied at the little 
justice done in this imperfect sketch in memory of the five 
j^reatest Italian writers of this century. Italy alone knows the 
full measure of what she owes them ; their fame, unrestrained 
by Austrian fetters, was wafted early by the sweet breezes of 
Italy to every land that recognized the claims of genius, or 
loved the name of liberty ; and in the British Parliament, long 
years ago, a great English statesman in demonstrating that 
Italy was worthy to cast off her long servitude, pronounced the 
names of Alfieri, Foscolo, Pellico, Manzoni and Leo- 

PARDI. 

You all remember, perhaps, the following lines : 

Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, 
The gay, the learned, the generous, and the brave, 
Native to thee, as summer to thy skies, 
Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave. 
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name ; 
For thee alone they have no arm to save. 
And all thy recompense is in their fame, 
A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same ? 

To the English poet, Italy can now proudly answer. No ! For, 
as the phantom host of the patriot sons defiles by, towering in 
their ranks, her dimmed eyes see the figures of those whose 
genius, whose efforts, whose labors, whose sufferings, were all 
placed upon their country's altar. Italy is not " the same," no 
longer a country whose geographical position interests none but 
the school boy, or tourist ; no longer a mere store-house of art 
treasures, the curiosity-shop of the world, recalling so much of 
the dead past, so little of the living present — a land filled with 
decaying memories where an oppressed and degraded people 
can barely heave the last sigh as a requiem over hopes long 
dead. No ! It is a land which has stirred the ashes of the 
past and found yet some living sparks of its ancient heroism ; 'tis 
a land where the dreams of a Tasso, a Raphael and the aspira- 
tions of a Michael Angelo have become realities — realities 
built upon achievements of mind and heart that would not dis- 



144 FREDERICK M. PAGE, 

honor the world's greatest heroes. For, as the panorama of the 
last thirty years of glorious regeneration passes before us, we see 
the first struggle of 1848 for independence, and feel the hopes and 
fears, the agonizing expectancy; the cold-blooded tyranny of 
foreign oppressors, the matchless, indomitable spirit and con- 
stancy of king, noble, burgher and peasant ; the far-seeing policy 
of Cavour, the patriotism of Garibaldi, the self-sacrifice of La 
Marmora awakening the sympathy of generous France and dis- 
tant England. Ah ! If the spirits of the great dead could return to 
earth or if some particle of the divine sympathy still binds them 
to the children of this world, how radiant the face of Dante, how 
eager the look of Ferruccio, listening longingly for the first 
cry of Italian Liberty, or the triumphal chorus that announced 
the work as " done, and well done." For the sword of Caval- 
CANTi did not glitter in vain, when waved aloft by Victor 
Emmanuel ; the star of Charles Albert did not set for ever 
at Novara, but shone out with redoubled brilliancy above the 
Quirinal. The valleys and hills of Italy no longer echo the wail 
of despair from Dante's breaking heart, repeat no more the 
better humiliation of Alfieri's 

Servi siam ma og^or frementi. • 

Six hundred years of shame, despair, humiliation, may well 
be forgotten when from Adriatic to the Middle Sea, firom Sicily 
to the Alpine heights rolls the grand swelling thunder of 

Italia^ Italia^ una ! 



III. — The Allegory as employed by Spenser, Bunyan^ and Swift 
By HERBERT EVELETH GREENE, Ph. D. 

INSTRUCTOR IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE IN THE 
CATHEDRAL SCHOOL OF SAINT PAUL, GARDEN CITY, LONG ISLAND. 

I. 

In a dissertation on " The Anglo-Saxon Metaphor," Profes- 
sor GUMMERE has shown conclusively that while the metaphor, 
** the comer-stone of all poetical style," is a figure native to our 
literature, the simile had no existence in Old English poetry, 
until it was brought in through the influence of the Bible and of 
sacred Latin poetry. He also refutes the position taken by 
Professor Heinzel in his essay ** Ueber den Stil der altger- 
pianischen Poesie," ■ that the simile existed in Old English poetry 
previous to the introduction c^ Christianity, but was given up as 
a concession to a foreign culture ; showing that, on the contrary, 
only a few sporadic cases of the simile occur before the sacred 
writings were made known to our ancestors, and that the devel- 
opment of that figure was distinctly hastened by the influence of 
the church. 

In the course of time the simile would doubtless have had an 
independent growth ; but it is too conscious a figure to be found in\ 
the early stages of a literature. The brief metaphor and the Ken- 
ning are more natural. Dr. Bode, in his dissertation " Die Ken- 
ningar in der angelsachsischen Dichtung," notes the &ct (p. 9) that 
young people, women, and those of strong emotional tempera- 
ment, use Kenningar very freely. In the same way Professor* 
GuMMERE shows (p. 12) that the language of children and of 
primitive races abounds in unconscious metaphor ; not until the 
imaginative power in children begins to give way to the reason- 
ing faculty, not until a literature has begun to be conscious of 
itself, is the simile used freely. The elaborate detail of the 
Homeric simile is never found in Old English poetry ; the poet 
is in such haste to press on that even his metaphors are brief. 
Though the movement is not rapid, owing to frequent repetition, 
yet there seems to be a resistless energy beating back and forth 
between the verses, that gives the effect of rapidity. 

The allegory is even more conscious of itself as a literary form 
than is the simile ; it also is not found in our literature until after 



s (PmMkm mmd F^rtckmngitn, to ; Stnstburg, 1875. 



146 HERBER T EVBLETH GREENE. 

the introduction of Christianity, and its development coincides 
^ with the growth of the church. This figure bears on its face 
the marks of eastern origin ; in the form of fable and parable it 
^ is found in the oldest literatures. In the Old Testament there 
are many cases of genuine allegory, as, for example, the beau- 
tiful allegory in Psalm Ixxx and that in Psalm xxiii ; longer alle- 
gories, and more difficult of interpretation, are contained in the 
* Canticles ' and in the prophecy of Ezekiel. Saint Paul (Gal. iv, 
24 ; i Cor. x, 4), Saint John (Revelation), and the author of the 
epistie to the Hebrews (cap. iv ; cap. vii), set the example of alle- 
gorical interpretation of Old Testament history. Under the lead 
of the Alexandrian Jews there was an attempt to interpret alle- 
gorically the entire Old Testament ; stimulated by the examples 
of the aposties and by the writings of Philo Judaeus, the Alex- 
andrian Fathers, Clement and Origen employed the same 
method of interpretation. Origen, who has been called " the 
father of the allegorical method in the church," went so far as 
to say that " the Scriptures are of littie use to those who under- 
stand them as they are written ;" his tendency toward allegoriz- 
ing and other liberal views brought about his trial for heresy and 
consequent excommunication. Augustine, chief of the Latin 
fathers, carried to excess this method of interpretation. In the 
middle ages the accepted mode of interpretation was according 
to the four-fold sense in which Dante tells us the * Divina Com- 
media * is to be understood : " the literal sense teaches what has 
been done, the allegorical what to believe, the moral what to do, 
the anagogical whither we are tending ; or as the Latin couplet 

has it, 

Litera gesta docet, quid credas allegoria, 

Moralis quid agas, quo tendas anagogia. 

In the decline of Latin Literature, allegory began to be used 
freely, (cf the allegory of Cupid and Psyche in Apuleius) ; and 
the Christian poets adopted and used extensively this form. As 
a distinct literary form, the allegory was first employed by the 
Spanish scholar, Prudentius (born in 548 A. D. ; collected 
works published in 405 A. D.) in a series of Latin poems of 
which the " Psychomachia " is the most important 

This tendency toward allegorical poetry and toward allegorical 
interpretation was brought to England by the monks that fol- 
lowed in the train of St. Augustine. In Old English we have 
only Cynewulf's * Phoenix ' and the * Physiologus ;* but the 
Bestiary, the occasional allegory in the 'Aucrea Riwle/ the 



ALLEGOR Y IN SPENSER, B UNYAN, AND SWIFT, 147 

* Ayenbite of Inwit/ and the * Ormulum,' the * Vision concern- 
ing Piers the Plowman/ and numerous homilies, bear witness 
to the wide-spread influence of the allegory in Middle English. 
A fresh impulse was given to the cultivation of this form by the 
influence of French literature ; the * Roman de la Rose ' in par- v 
ticular was the fore-runner and exemplar of a vast number of 
allegories, both in English and in French. Without entering 
upon the discussion of questions of disputed authorship, we may 
note in passing the undoubted influence of this poem and of the 

" Dream of Scipio " upon Chaucer and his contemporaries. 
That " disease of the middle ages," as allegory has been called, 
spread like an epidemic through all the literatures of Europe. 
Passing over Skelton, Dunbar and Gawain Douglas, we 
come to the tedious allegory of Stephen Hawes, — * The Passe- 
tyme of Plesure,* telling of the education of the hero Graunde 
Amoure at the Tower of Doctrine ; " howe he was received of 
Logyke ; howe he was received of Rethoryke, and what rethi- 
oryke is ;" how in the Tower of Musike he found La bell Pucell, 
of whose incomparable excellences Fame had already told him 
on directing him to the Tower of Doctrine ; how he wooed and" 
' won her love ; and of the various adventures and trials that he 
' underwent before he was finally married to her. This is enough 
to give an idea of the arbitrariness and the frigi d artificiality of 
^the allegory ; it may also serve as an illustration of" numerous 
other poems of varying degrees of tediousness. Ab una disce 
ontfies. The Italian influence of the Renaissance revived the 
taste for allegory that had begun to fall into disuse. If Ariosto 
had not been conscious of any allegorical significance in his 
romantic poem, his commentators were not slow to redeem his 
reputation and to discover a hidden meaning for him. For a 
time this was the prevalent mode of interpreting Homer aud 
Vergil. Tasso did as Martinus Scriblerus advises in his 
Recipe to make an Epic Poem ; after completing his poem, he 
extracted an allegory from it. His *Aminta* and Guarini's 

* Pastor Fido * served as a model for the pastoral drama of 
Fletcher and Ben Jonson. 

It was under such influences, both native and foreign, that 
Spenser wrote what are well-nigh the most poetical of all alle- 
gories in English. T he next name prominent in this style of 
writing is that of Phineas Fletcher. His * Piscatory Ec- 
logues * are a direct imitation of * The Shepheards Calender ' of 
Spenser. Tt^ « TVi^ P^^-pl^ Island.' it would seem that allegory 



./ 



1 48 HERBER T E VELETH GREENE. 

is carried to it s fartb^ extreme ; the first five cantos read more 
like a treatise on anatomy than like a poem. The writer acts as 
his own interpreter in learned marginal notes. A short extract 
will suffice : 

At that caves mouth * twice sixteen Porten stand. 
Receivers of the customarie rent ; 
On each side foure (the formost of the band) 
Whose office to divide what in is sent : 
Straight other foure break it in peices small ; 
And at each hand twice five, which grinding all. 
Fit it for convoy and this cities Arsenal I. 

From thence a ^Gioom with wondrous volubilitie 

Delivers all unto near officers. 

Of nature like himself, and like agilitie ; 

On each side foure, that are the govemours 

To see the vict'als shipt at fittest tide ; 

Which straight from thence with prosp'rous chanel slide 

And in Koilia^s * port with nimble oars glide. ' 

* * In either chap are sixteen teeth ; foure cutters, two dog-teeth, or 
breakers, ten grinders. 

'^The tongue with great agilitie delivers up the meat (well chewed) 
to the instruments of swallowing : eight muscles serving to this pur- 
pose, which instantly send the meat through the Oesophagus or 
meat-pipe into the stomach. 

Francis Quarles had contemplated writing upon the same 
subject : the following verses by him, usually prefixed to ' The 
Purple Island,' may illustrate the kind of allegory employed in 
the first few cantos of that poem, and are better reading in pro- 
portion as the passage is briefer : 

Man's body's like a house : his greater bones 

Are the main timber ; and the lesser ones, 

Are smaller splints : his ribs are laths, daub'd o'er, 

Plaster'd with flesh and blood : his mouth's the door. 

His throat's the narrow entry ; and his heart 

Is the great chamber, full of curious art : 

His midriff is a large partition wall 

Twixt the g^eat chamber and the spacious hall : 

His stomach is the kitchen, where the meat 

Is often but half sod, for want of heat : 

His spleen's a vessel nature does allot 

To take the scum that rises from the pot : 

His lungs are like the bellows that respire 

In ev'ry office, quick 'ning ev'ry fire : 

His nose the chimney is, whereby are vented 

Such fumes as with the bellows are augmented, etc., etc. 

a The itooiach. 3 Ouito ii, >tAiuM 30.31. 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT. 149 

Fletcher's allegory is the same in kind, though he allegor- 
izes the human body in a diflferent manner. The body is an 
(island, of which the veins are rivers, the stomach a harbor, the 
heart the capital city : each nerve and sinew has its counterpart 
After five cantos in this manner, annotated with copious marginal 
notes, the poem b continued by personifying the intellectual 
qualities, the vices and the virtues that inhabit this ''purple 
island," man. As Fletcher describes the conflict between the 
virtue s and the'^VJC^, t he foriner under the lead o f Eclecta-— 
(I nfelie cO, he rises into aTiigher vein of poetry than Quarles 
is Spable of: Saintsburv says that at times his verse is worthy 
of Spenser, when he is nodding. In the twelfth canto there is ^ 
a sudden bathos where there should be a climax. In answer to 
prayer of Eclecta, who is sorely oppressed, there appears appro- 
priately enough an angel : very inappropriately, however, this 
angel is Kin ^ fames the Fi rst, who, by a theological treatise on 
the Apocalypse, assures the victory to Eclecta. Verily, a dais 
ex machina / After such fulsome adulation, shall we venture ^ 
to criticise Spenser's compliments to Q ueen Elizabe th ? For- 
tunately we may believe that it is not in the power of man to 
write anything more tedious than the first half of * The Purple 
Island.' Between allegory as written by Langland and Spen- 
ser and as written by Hawes and Fletcher, the poet gifted 
with true imaginative power and the manufacturer of dark con- 
ceits, there is a vast difference. Both Phineas and Giles. 
Fletcher are of importance in that their influence can bel 
traced in Milton, whom I consider a master in the use of alle-| 
gory. It is probable that from Fletcher's Hamartia in * The 
Purple Island ' Milton's imagination conceived the allegory of 
Sin and Death in the second book of ' Paradise Lost :' the alle- 
gory is far more powerful than Fletcher's, though it is one of 
X the most conscious and least successful of Milton's allegories.^ 

It was in the same century, when, were it not for * Comus,' 
* Lycidas,' and ' Samson Agonistes,' the allegory might seem 
to merit a natural death, that there was written the most impres- 
sive and the most widely read of all allegories, — * The Pilgrim's 
Progress.' Nearly at the same time appeared the vigorous 
satires of Drvden; and in the closing years of the century 
were written, though not published, the still more powerful 
satires of Swift. Since 1726-27, the date of publication of 

4 Both Milton and Flbtchbh doubtless had in mind Jsunes 1, 15 : Flbtchbk quotes 
RoBMuw VI, 13 ; ' The Purple Island,' Canto XII, Stansa 35. The description of«Error la 
Im first canto of ' The Faerie Queen ' may also hare been present in Miltom^s mind. 



ISO 



HERBERT EVE LET H GREENE. 



* Gulliver's Travels,' we have the occasional short allegories of 
the 'Spectator' and the * Rambler/ and Thomson's * Castle 
of Indolence,' — of all imitations of Spenser the most perfect 
and beautiful. In our day the allegory has passed out of &vor 
as a literary form, and its use is infrequent 

In the early drama the Moralities were allegories both in con- 
struction and in aim. This form of dramatic allegory was 
continued in the masques of Ben Jonson and Shirley, and 
was carried to perfection in Milton's * Comus.' 

II. 

*' AUegorie, — ein Wort womit nur wenige einen bestimmten 

BegrifF verbinden.** — Lessing. 

The allegory has usually been defined as a prolonged met- 
aphor or a prolonged personification ; abstracts are made con- 

^crete ; one story is told in terms of another. In opposition to 
the view which would consider the allegory merely as a meta- 
phor carried out into greater detail, Brinkmann (* Die Meta- 
phem, pp. 28, 29) would establish the following distinction : the 
allegory is an expression of thought which is figurative through- 
out in all its details ; while the metaphor is partly literal, partly 
figurative. Accordingly, there may be brief allegory and long 

^ metaphor. Thus, commenting upon examples of metaphor 
given in CARRifeRE's *Aesthetik,' he considers the expression 
in 'Macbeth,* ^ 

Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, 

a genuine metaphor, inasmuch as care cannot be knit up into 
a ball or skein ; the figure is broken and is not carried through 
consistentiy. Quite differentiy he understands the expression 
Nacht muss es sein wo Friedlands Steme strahlen.s 

which is consistently figurative throughout, and is a case of alle- 
gory. The distinction made here is essential and marks a gen- 
uine difference ; accordingly Brinkmann would consider alle- 
gory a separate figure, were it not for the ease with which meta- 
phor shades off into allegory, thus making it difficult to mark 
with precision the boundary between them. Thus the verse 
quoted from * Wallenstein ' might be considered a metaphor, if 
it were not for the connection ; astrology performs so important 
a part in ' Wallenstein/ that it is altogether natural to speak of 
" Friedlands stars." In the quotation from * Macbeth,' which 
contains several metaphors, we are conscious in each case of the 
trope, the turning from the literal signification of the words used : 

5 'WtUleasteia'i Tod/ III, 10. 



ALLEGOR Y IN SPENSER, B UNYAN, AND SWIFT, 1 5 1 

Methought I heard a voice cry * Sleep no more 1 
Macbeth does murder sleep * — the innocent sleep. 
Sleep that knits up the raveird sleave of care. 
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, 
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course. 
Chief nourisher in life's feast. — ^ 

Elach metaphor surprises the mind by its originality and vigor ; 
there is a consciousness both of the fitness of the thought and 
of the incongruity of the means of expression. We know that 
Macbeth could not murder sleep, that care has no sleave to be 
knit up, that a day has neither life nor death, that labor cannot 
be bathed, that balm cannot be applied to the mind ; but the 
essential similarity of things that to the external vision are 
unlike, give to the mind a heightened pleasure through the new 
association of ideas suggested to ik 

Compare the following allegory by Clough ; 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go ? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, 
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace ; 
Or, o'er the stem reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave. 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go ? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from ? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

This is figurative throughout, if it is figurative at all ; once 
admit that there is a figure involved in the poem, and we must 
admit that there is not a phrase, not a word, that is at the same 
time to be taken literally. Very different is this from the com- 
bination of the literal and the figurative in the metaphor, Life is 
a voyage. This distinction is especially useful in the considera- 
tion of style, but it will also be of use in the consideration of the 
allegory as a literary form, with which we are chiefly concerned. 
For the allegory is nothing more or less than a riddle. Visch- 
ER (quoted by Brinkmann, p. 26) describes the allegory as 
•* eine durch mehrere Momente durchgef iihrte Metapher, welcher 

6 'Macbeth,* II, U, 35-40. ~~ 



152 HERBER T EVELETH GREENE. 

in der Art versteckt ist, dass sie den verglichenen Gegenstand 
verschweigt und rathselardg errathen lasst" This riddle-like 
character, this suppression of the object compared, marks the 
very essence of the allegory, and will throw light upon its excel- 
lences and its defects. It is of first importance then that that 
which does not meet the ear, the double meaning for the sake 
of which the story is told, shall be clearly and unmistakably 
symbolized in what is written. A riddle unanswered is a failure ; 

\ in like manner an allegory which remains a dark conceit, or 

> which is unravelled with difficulty, is a failure as an allegory, 
^ whatever its literary merit may be in other directions.^ 

Moreover, the surface meaning of an allegory taken by itself 
must be clear and consistent without any regard to the hidden 

"^ meaning. The allegory by Clough is an excellent example in 
point. If attention be paid only to the sur&ce meaning, it is 
complete, beautiful, and satisfying ; the hidden meaning in no 
wise disturbs the surface meaning, but gives to the poem new 
beauty and depth with every reading. This it is that makes the 
poem so perfect an allegory. Nor is there any confusion of the 
figurative and the literal sense. The figurative sense is not forced 
upon us ; if we prefer to take only the literal sense, we find it 
simple and unmixed with any perplexing hint that we do not 
understand the poem.* Yet the symbol is expressed with such 
beauty of suggestion that it lingers in the mind with a fascination 
that makes the poem, once read, never to be forgotten. 

In view of what has been said above I cannot admit that a 
prolonged personification is genuine allegory. Brinkmann, 
indeed, says (p. 36) that a personification completely carried 
out is allegory in the narrower sense of the word ; but if it is 
indeed the nature of allegory that it says something other than 
is meant (jiXXo dyoptvit ^roef), then this condition is not met 
by representing in action an abstract quality named for itself. 

^^ Evidently there is no riddle here, for nothing is suppressed ; the 
writer declares very plainly his literal meaning. Justice b 
upright ; Fortitude is brave ; Mercy is gentle. Eighteenth cen- 

7Cf. QuiNTiuAN, 'Inst. Ormtor/ iriii, 6, 59: Haec allegoria, qvac est obscurior. 
aenigma dicitur; Yitium meo quidem Judicio, si quidem dicere dllucide virtus; quo tanaa 
•C poetae utuntur. 

8 It may be objected that the seaman always knows for what land he is bound, and firoa 
what port he sailed : but the question with which the poem begins is not whmi, but wkgrt : 
and the answer does not give the name of the port, but merely points in the direction of the 
ship's course. It is an added excellence in the allegory, if the mind is caused to dwell for a 
moment upon the first stansa, until it realises that " more is meant than meets the ear;" 
the reader "early grasps the key and begins to apply it to the solutioo of the various 
detaiU of the aamtlve." Cf. p. 135. 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT, 153 

tury poetry abounds in what Lowell calls "that alphabetic 
personification which enlivens all such words as Hunger, Soli- 
tude, Freedom, by the easy magic of an initial capital." 

Send forth the saving Virtues round the land, 
In bright patrol : white Peace, and social Love ; 
The tender-looking Charity, intent 
On gentle deeds, and shedding tears thro' smiles ; 
Undaunted Truth, and Dignity of mind.9 

^This alphabetic personification cannot avail to give life to an 
abstraction ; it must assume to the mind's eye the form of living 
flesh and blood, must suffer and struggle, in order to win our 

X interest and sympathy. If a single lifeless personification is 
frigid, what must that personification be when prolonged through 
many pages in the same dull manner? Yet even when this diffi- 
culty has been surmounted, and the narrative has been made 
lifelike and interesting, this is not allegory, for nothing is sup- 

^ pressed. Personification is metaphor ; but personification is not 

• allegory. P^r^firntinn PnHp^vnr^ t o convey its meaning 

directly in a vivid man p^^r ; whilp allpgnry ronvpya ita njpaning 

^ indirectly thr ough a a m e dium differing fro m itself. 

Neither is it allegory to represent a hero or heroine as the 
embodiment of some particular virtue or vice ; if this were the 
case, ' Sense and Sensibility,' * Pride and Prejudice,' and all 
novels of didactic aim, apparent or concealed, must be counted 
as allegories. A thing cannot be represented in an allegory by 
itself. It is not enough to say that the manner of presentation 
is different from the actuality, for this b necessarily the case with 
any abstraction ; the presentation of abstract truth in concrete 
form is not allegory, unless the form be such that it contains a 
hidden meaning different from the surface meaning.*^ It is a 
misnomer to apply the name allegory to that which has only a 
surface meaning. 

Though allegories have been written merely for entertainment, 
yet for practical purposes we may assert that all allegories are 
^ didactic ; the allegory always aims at teaching some truth. It 
may be religious truth, as in ' The Pilgrim's Progress ;* moral 
truth, as in * The Faerie Queene ;' theological truth, as in * The 
Hind and the Panther ;' political satire, as in 'Gulliver's Travel's ;* 
religious and theological satire, as in ' The Tale of a Tub ;' lit- 
erary satire, as in ' The Dunciad.' Sometimes it refers to his- 

^Thomsoii's 'Scmods*: Smmmtr^ venes 1604-1608. 

so AXkriyopiOL alitid verbb allud tensu ostendlt. QuiirriUAK, * Inst. 



154 



HERBERT EVELETH GREENE. 



torical events, and its pretended moral indignation is merely a 
cloak for bitter personal satire, as in 'Absalom and Achitophel ;' 
but even here there is a pretence of enforcing some moral lesson. 
A poet may venture to say in allegorical wise truths mthat he 
would not venture to utter openly. Thus in the 1638 edition of 
' Lycidas ' it would not have been safe, if it had been appro- 
priate, to call the reader's attention directly to the fcict that Mil- 
ton had turned aside "to foretell the ruin of our corrupted 
clergy, then in their height ;" but the danger had passed away 
when the poem was reprinted in 1645, after the Long Parliament 
had abolished the Court of High Commission. The allegory 
is equally well adapted to be a vehicle for flattery ; we can read 
with equanimity compliments to Belphoebe and Gloriana, which 
when addressed to a living person must sound fulsome to all 
save the flatterer and the flattered. 

As a literary form, the allegory differs from the parable chiefly 

^ in length, and in the suppression of the moral. The fable or 

^ apologue represents creatures not human or inanimate things as 
speaking and acting like human beings. Robert Henrysoun, 
Prior and Gay are the chief writers of &bles in English, 
though Swift's apologue of the bee and the spider is perhaps 
the best known. The simpler and easier form of allegory has 
been attempted less than that which is a greater tax upon the 
power of invention. The writer of allegories is beset with diffi- 
culties on every side. In addition to those already mentioned 
there is the danger of considering the illustration so closely as 
to forget the thing illustrated. The allegory is not a brief story 

' like the fable with the addition of a pithy moral ; but every 
detail of a long narrative is supposed to enforce some point in 
the general truth taught. Now a short moral is all that the 
ordinary reader is willing to listen to. The writer of allegory 
has then the difficult task of constructing a narrative, every 
detail of which shall convey some lesson ; on the other hand the 
narrative must be interesting, and yet not of such absorbing 
interest as to close the eyes to the very purpose for which it has 
been written. The allegory thus occupies middle ground 
between the narrative poem and the didactic poem ; and it has 
to meet the difficulties inherent to each. A didactic poem that 
is not clever is tedious ; accordingly even an allegory that is well 
constructed, will be tedious exactly in proportion to its length, 
unless the narrative has interest enough to counter-balance the 

omnipresent moral. This is the dif&c\}lty mth Fletcher's 



ALLEGOR Y IN SPENSER, B UN VAN, AND SWIFT. 155 

• Purple Island/ The allegory is constructed in the most careful 
manner, with the closest correspondence in every minute detail 
between the literal meaning and the figurative meaning ; but the 
surface meaning is uninteresting, and the hidden meaning is 
even more so. If, however, the narrative absorbs the reader^s 
attention to the exclusion of the lesson that it is intended to con- 
vey, the work, whatever other excellences it may possess, is a 
failure as an allegory. The successful allegorist, then, must be 
a skillful writer of narrative who has also a high degree of imag- 
inative power, and tact to know in what proportion to blend the 
didactic element ; his problem is to know how thick a coating 
of sugar to give the pUl. 

The pre-reqiiisites of a good narrative are, of course, move- 
ment and method. It is difficult to say which is the more im- 
portant A narrative must have movement, else it is lifeless ; 
progress of some kind there must be. Equally essential is it 
that the progress be straight ahead ; nothing is more tiresome 
than an unmethodical narrative that circles about without making 
any advance. Short detours there may be for the sake of a new 
point of view, if the highway be not lost ; but Christian is not 
the first or the last who has discovered the danger of strolling 
in By-path Meadow. A strict attention to unity will conduce to 
both movement and method ; and this unity, it is scarcely neces-' 
sary to say, rests in the moral, the purpose for which the tale is 
told. There must be a steadfast and orderly progression 
toward the end first decided upon : no episode, no digression 
can be admitted, that does not have some bearing upon the 
main purpose of the narrative. 

An allegory should also be clear and definite. Reference has 
already been made to the " riddle-like character " of the alle- 
gory ; but a good allegory will suggest its own answer. A rid- ^ 
die of several hundred pages is more than human patience can 
endure, unless there is some adequate reward in store for it ; 
therefore the answer must not be vaguely hinted at, but should 
be clearly suggested almost at the outset. If the reader does 
not early grasp the key and begin to apply it to the solution of 
the various details of the narrative, then the allegory is a failure 
so &r as its chief aim is concerned. Nothing will conduce to 
clearness of detail so much as perfect clearness in the general out- 
line ; to refer again to Clough's allegory, it is the naturalness of 
the metaphor on which the allegory is constructed, — Life is a voy- 
Bge, — ihsLt makes the various details so easily intelligible. But 



1 56 HERBER T EVELETH GREENE. 

let the thouvrbt which is the baas of an all^oiy be arbitrary or 
obscure, and even- added detail, instead of clearing up the con- 
fusion, vkill sene only to wear\' and perplex die reader. 

The highest kind of allegon' is d&at which rises, consdously 
or unconsciously, into the r^on of symbolism. The difierence 
betiA'een ordinan- allegor^' and symbolism is well expressed by 
Aubrey de Vere: "Symbols have a real, and allegor- 
ies but an arbitran' existence.'*" Sa>'s RusKiN, " Symbolism is 
the setting forth of a great truth by an imperfect and inferior 
sign.*'" If we add Coleridge's definition of aU^ory, "the 
employment of one set of agents and images to convey in dis- 
guise a moml meaning, wiik a likeness to the ifmaginaium^ but 
with a difference to the understandings — ^those agents and 
images being so combined as to form a homogeneous whole, "'^i-^ 
we shall perhaps come as near as may be to defining that which 
is really indefiiuble. The words that I have italicised are like- 
wise true of the simile and the metaphor, but they are especi* 
ally true of the highest kind of alIegor>'. Arbitrary all^ory is 
cold and lifeless : while it is the nature of S}inbolism to be stim- 
ulating and suggestive. True sxnmbolism, as RusKiN says, is 
ennobling : it is not limited in its meaning, but is expan«ve. The 
understanding will consent to walk in the path marked out for 
it, though it may not stop at the appointed bound ; the imagina- 
tion breaks loose fi'om all restraints, soars aloft, and takes a 
bird's eye view for more comprehensive than the limited \ision 
of the understmding. Compare the tedious predsion of ' The 
Purple Ishnd ' and its careful marginal notes with the beautiful 
suggestivencss of Clough's allegor>\ The choice of sugges- 
tive and appropriate symbols is a test of a poet's imaginative 
power. Under the form of that which is common and fiuniliar 
is presented to the mind a thought different in kind, higher in 
its nature, and upon which no limit is placed to the range of the 
imagination. When we are told that " man*s body's like a house/' 
or an island, we perceive a certain analog^' between the objects 
compared, but are conscious at the same time that such a com- 
parison is arbitrary and purely fonciful. But the oft repeated 
metaphor " Life is a voyage," as soon as it is uttered, impresses 
the mind with its reality : we know that it is true. The extent to 
which this metaphor has become hackneyed is a testimony to its 



II Gbosabt's edition of Spbnsbb, Vol. i, p. 373: reprinted in ' EtWTS, cUtty ea 
Vol. I. p. 17. 
It ' Stonei of Venice/ Vol. ii, p. 319. S3 * Works/ Amcricmn cditioa« V6L It, p. •47. 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT. 157 

naturalness ; nor can it ever become so familiar that in a master's 
hand it may not be clothed with new interest and beauty. 

Of allegory that is based upon symbolism it is also true that 
it will not relax its hold upon our attention, but is continually 
hinting to us that we have not fathomed all the meaning of the 
story. In arbitrary allegory there is a definite, precise meaning 
that can be made out once and for all ; in symbolism the mean- 
ing is never exhausted. Our minds are constandy occupied 
with the story that has been suppressed ; we wish to know the 
thought that was in the poet*s mind. Of this not a word is told 
us, but it must all be constructed by us out of our own knowl- 
edge and experience. If the symbolism used by a poet is apt 
and noble, his allegory haunts the reader with a continually 
recurring fascination; it stirs in him the poetic nature which 
belongs to every lover of poetry, even though he may not be 
gifted with the power of song. It must also be noted that by 
long association what was at first merely a sign or an attribute, 
becomes a symbol ; thus the cross, originally the sign of a crim- 
inal's punishment, has become eloquent as a symbol of the 
Christian faith. 

Symbolism is general in its nature and will scarcely admit of 
being carried out into elaborate detail. It caniiot reasonably be 
demanded that more shall be done than to choose a symbol 
which is clear and ennobling, and which shall run unmistakably 
through the entire allegory ; this will do much toward relieving 
what might otherwise seem arbitrary in the detail. Indeed it 
would be hard to find a long allegory that is throughout gen-^ 
uinely symbolic. De Quincey speaks of the difficulty that 
arises because allegorical characters are frequendy brought into 
situations that have no allegorical meaning : " Thus, for exam- 
ple. Charity is brought by the conduct of the story into the 
various accidents and situations of a traveller ; Hope is repre- 
sented as the object of sexual love, etc. And, in all such cases, 
the allegoric character is for the moment suspended in obedience 
to the necessities of the story."*^ Because of a distinction that 
he makes between fleshless personification and incarnate princi- 
ples he claims that there is no error in this, provided that the 
characters are not brought into situations contradictory to the 
principle involved in the narrative. The passage is also of 
interest as indicating that De Quincey did not look upon mere 
personification as allegory. Yet Spenser's personifications are 

14 * Works ' American edition, Vol. ix, note on p. 599. 



158 HERBER T EVELETH CREESE, 

certainly ur nroci bein^j liieless : wh3e SwiFT» and BUNYAN 
when he chose, was able to nmi an allegorical meaning for all 
the \-arlcus accidens and situarions of a traveller. 

III. 
By the admisaon of his warmest admirers, Spenser, the 
first of romantic poets who have written in English, was only 
partially successml in his use of allegory. In the light of the 
preceding investigation into the nature and requirements of the 
allegor>-. I wish to examine his use of this ibrm of literature 
with the purpose of ascertaining, if possible, wheran he foiled ; 
incidentally I shall examine the work of two other writers, — 
BuNYAX and Swift. — superior to him in the use of all^ory, 
though inferior to him in literary art. 

A. When we think of writers of allegory, die name of Bun- 
van is the first that comes into our minds ; of all books that 
have been written in the English language, perhaps in any lan- 
guage, * The Pilgrim's Progress ' has probably been most read 
in its entirerv. Like Sir Thomas Malory's * Morte d' Arthur/ 
BuNYAN*s master-piece is usually classed with our poetry ; both 
are to be counted in our small number of epics. 

The first quality necessary to a poet, namely imagination, 
BUN^'AN possessed in a high degree. In childhood his mind was 
filled with vivid thoughts that terrified him beyond measure. 
Swearing, a xice hx more common two hundred years ago than 
now, and Ipng, a &ult natural to a child of imaginative temper- 
ament, allowed him no peace, but made his soul a prey to appre- 
hensions of di\-ine wrath. EniI spirits and x-isions of judgment 
appeared to him in his sleep. In early manhood his mind was 
the battle-field of contending emotions, now plunging him into 
agonies of distress, and at times raising him to a state of relig- 
ious ecstasy. His religious autobiography, ' Grace Abounding- 
to the Chief of Sinners/ furnishes a key to his latec and better 
known works. From it we learn how terribly real to Bunyan 
were the foes that assailed Christian, and that garrisoned the 
city of Mansoul. It was no abstraction of the mind with which 
for several years Buxvan wresded so eamesdy in prayer ; to 
him the devil was as genuine a personality as he was to Martik 
Luther. 

With Bunyan's imaginative power belongs his power of vivid 
personification. Mr. Greatheart, the Interpreter, Giant Despair^ 
Lord Will-be-will, are not mere alphabetic personifications ; they 
are living realities. Bunyan's less imaginative writings abound 



ALLEGOR Y IN SPENSER, B UNYAN, AND SWIFT. 1 59 

in simflies and in striking metaphors. Of him it might truly be 
said, " He thought in figures, for the figiires came/' 

Another quality, skillfulness of narration, Bunyan possessed 
in a marked degree. His story never flags ; Christian halts upon 
hb journey, but the story progresses. Even in * Grace Abound- 
ing,' a narrative of spiritual struggle and growth, there is abun* 
dant incident and orderly progression. Much more in 'The 
Pilgrim's Progress' is there continual movement. Bunyan's 
very names are a description ; and every word, every action, is 
a revelation of character. Yet his narrative is perfectly ardess ; 
it is to his straight-forward simplicity that his excellence, both 
in movement and in method, is due. 

The use of dialogue gave an added semblance of truth to his 
narratives ; whenever it is possible, Bunyan is silent and Chris- 
tian speaks for himself. Indeed Christian's travelling compan- 
ions. Faithful and Hopeful, were devised largely for the purpose 
of giving him an opportunity to tell his own story. The narra- 
tive is in semi-dramatic form ; it has all the directness and 
vividness of the drama, ' The Plaine Man's Pathway to Heaven. 
Set foorth Dialogue-wise, for the better understanding of the 
simple,' — ^may have served Bunyan for model, if not for inspi- 
ration ; this book, one of the two that formed his wife's portion, 
and did beget within him some desires to religion,'' was doubt- 
less never forgotten by him, and perhaps had a decisive influ- 
ence upon his choice of style. 

Moreover, there is perfect unity in Bunyan's narrative. No 
other character succeeds in drawing away our attention from 
Christian, who is always the centre of the story. After a long 
speech by Talkative or by Faithful, our first thought is, " What 
will Christian have to say to that ?" Evangelist is seen approach- 
ing in the distance ; and at once we think, " Now there is help 
and comfort for Christian." Indeed it would be diflicult to 
prove that any part of the story is irrelevant. 

Of all long allegories Bunyan's is probably the simplest. Its 
meaning is so dear that it cannot be mistaken. Even a child 
who reads merely for the story, grasps the general point, though 
he may not be able to comprehend all the detail. Unquestion- 
ably it is owing to its simplicity that * The Pilgrim's Progress ' 
has become so widely popular. Its allegory is not a riddle. 
The much-worn metaphor. Life is a pilgrimage, is kept clearly 
before the mind, without episode or digression. Most like a 



tS * Gemot Aboandinff/ p. 13- 



x6o HERBER T E VELE TH GREENE. 

digression are the theological discussions with Talkative and 
with Ignorance, and Hopeful's account of his awakening to sin 
and of his conversion ; but these conversations took place not in 
the arbor mid-way up the hill Difficulty, nor on the Delectable 
Mountains, nor yet in By-path Meadow, but while Christian and 
his companions were pressing on toward Mount Sion. 

"Wouldst thou read Riddles and their Explanation," 
says BuNYAN in his preface to * The Pilgrim's Progress ; but 
he does not suffer his riddle for a moment to remain such. Rid- 
dle and answer are given us at once. It is true that human ex- 
perience furnishes the answer from itself; but Bunyan is not 
contented with that He asks his readers to " be edified by the 
margent :" 

*' Nor do thou go to work without my Key, 

(In mysteries men soon do lose their way) 

And also turn it right if thou wouldst know 

My riddle, and wouldst with my heifer plow, 

It lies there in the window." — «6 The margent. 

Let us note for a moment how the answer to the riddle is 
obtruded upon the reader's attention. Bunyan does not begin 
his narrative by telling us that he walked through a certain 
wilderness, leaving us later to gather from his story that the 
world is meant, but he says distinctly, "As I walked through 
the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place, where 
was a Denn ;" and the margent informs us that " the gaol " is 
meant "I dreamed, and behold I saw a Man clothed with 
Raggs, standing in a certain place, with his face from his own 
House, a Book in his hand, and a great burden upon his back." 
The margent tells us at once that " all our righteousnesses are 

as filthy rags " (Isaiah Ixiv, 6) ; that " whosoever for- 

saketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple" (Luke 
xiv, 33) ; that " Mine iniquities are gone over my head ; as an 
heavy burden they are too heavy for me " (Psalms xxxviii, 4). 
Again where the general meaning is clear, Bunyan is carefiil 
that hb particular meaning be understood : " Then said Evan- 
gelist, pointing with his finger to a very wide Field, Do you see 
yonder *Wicket-gate ? The man said. No. Then said the other, 
Do you see yonder *shining light ? He said, I think I do. Then 
said Evangelist Keep that light in your eye, and go up direcdy 
thereto, *so shalt thou see the Gate :" — and the margent, besides 
telling us that " Christ and the way to him cannot be found 

16 * Th« Holy War/ end of prefiice addressed to the reader. 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUNYAN AND SWIFT. i6i 

without the Word," refers us to Matthew vii, 13, 14, "Enter ye in 

at the strait gate " etc., Psalm cxix, 105. Thy word is 

a light unto my path/' and 2 Peter, i, 19, "We have also a more 
sure word of prophecy; whereunto ye do well that ye take 
heed as unto a light that shineth in a dark place." HVhat I wish 
to note particularly is that in the clearest and most popular of 
all allegories, so much pains is taken to make it impossible to 
misunderstand the writer's meaning. Bunyan was writing for 
the ordinary reader, who turns away from anything mystical, but 
is &scinated by it, if he can readily penetrate the mystery./ 

At no time have the English people as a whole been more 
familiar with the Bible than during the years covered by the 
lives of Milton and Bunyan. Nor was this familiarity with 
the Scriptures suddenly lost during the years immediately fol- 
lowing the Restoration : the Bible was still the most read book 
in England, and the seed that had been sown was still bringing 
forth fruit Wycherley and Congreve did not represent 
so large a portion of the people as did Bunyan and Baxter. 
In the villages and hamlets of England the middle and lower 
classes were still Bible-reading and Bible-following people. To 
no generation of readers has 'The Pilgrim's Progress' ever 
been so clear as it was to that which it first reached. In addi- 
tion to an intimate acquaintance with the Bible, they could see 
the history of their own time reflected in the allegory, perhaps 
with a minuteness of detail that we may not be able to discern. 

The clearness of Bunyan's allegory may be due in part to a 
cause that is not generally suspected, — namely, that much of it 
b not allegory at all. Whenever there is any danger of obscu- 
rity, Bunyan lays aside the allegorical disguise and speaks 
openly and directly; yet the main oudine of the story is so 
clearly allegorical that our eyes are closed to the lack of corres- 
pondence in detail. I have already noted the fact that Bunyan 
is so careful to avoid obscurity that he begins hb narrative not 
with allegory, but with a metaphor, "As I walked through the 
wilderness of this world," thus giving at the outset a clue to 
all that follows. So in the Slough of Despond, the hill Difli- 
culty, the Valley of Humiliation, Bunyan supplies that which 
is suppressed in genuine allegory, using personified metaphor 
instead of allegory. Characters like Mr. Worldly Wiseman, 
Gismt Despair, Ignorance, Greatheart, Mr. Ready-to-halt, and 
frequendy Christian himself, are in no wbe allegorical, but are 
nierely personifications, acting in accordance with their namef 



y 



1 62 HERBER T E VELE TH GREENE, 

This is what Coleridge means, when he says that " where an 
abstraction is too strongly individualized, it ceases to be alle- 
gory ; this is often felt in * The Pilgrim's Progress,' where the 
characters are real persons with nicknames." ^^ ApoUyon is a 

^ real person, without a nickname. 

Examples of genuine allegory couched in the language of 
symbolism are, the hill that threatened to fall on Christian's 
head, the valiant man, who said, " Set down my name, Sir,*' 
Christian's burden and his roll, and the Delectable Mountains. 
In all these cases something is suppressed ; though in nearly 
every instance the hidden meaning is supplied by the margent. 
Though it is true that there is scarcely a page in which the 
allegory is consistently maintained, yet the metaphor on which 
the narrative is based is kept clearly before the mind ; the im- 
pression which the mind receives most distinctly and retains 
longest, is that of the pilgrimage, which we know must be taken 

>; in a double sense. In point of clearness the paradox is true 

; that * The Pilgrim's Progress ' is so perfect an allegory because 

I it is not perfect allegory. 

(o Macaulav has noted some of the most serious inconsisten- 
cies in the conduct of the allegory ; as, for instance, the theolog- 
ical discussions and the catechizing of Christian's children, where 
there cannot be any hidden meaning ; the confusion of literal 
and figurative meaning in that Christian passes through the deep 
river of Death through which all must go or they cannot enter 
in at the gate, while his friend Faithful dies a martyr's death at 
the stake. To these instances it may be added that Christiana's 
sons and her daughter-in-law Mercy, though they have per- 
formed all the journey with her, do not follow her across the 
river of Death, but tarry encamped by the side of the river for 
many years. Interpreted allegorically, this should mean prolong- 
ed invalidism in mortal illness ; but with so many characters, it 
was scarcely possible to avoid inconsistencies of the kind. 

As a counterpart to ' The Pilgrim's Progress,' Bunvan wrote 
* The Life and Death of Mr. Badman.' It is in the form of a 
dialogue in which Mr. Wiseman recounts to Mr. Attentive the 
story of the evil courses of Mr. Badman, and of his progress 
from bad to worse until his death. The three characters named 
are not allegorical, scarcely even personifications ; they too are 
" real persons with nicknames." The entire narrative is straight- 
forward, and has no hidden meaning ; it is interesting for its 

17 • Works/ American 'EAU-— »'-» w, pp. 847, 848. 



ALLEGOR Y IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT. 163 

faithful portraiture of English life in the time of Bunyan, but it 
can not be called an allegory. The mention of informers who 
told of the meetings in the fields attended by Mr. Badman's 
religious wife,'^ must be a reference to the difficulties which 
Bunyan's church experienced in holding their meetings after 
the Conventicle Act of 1664 ; and the description of Mr. Bad- 
man's frequent breaking '9 (that is, failing in business) furnishes 
a curious parallel to the crooked dealing of more recent times. 
More truly allegorical than any other work of Bunyan's is 
' The Holy War/ of which Macaulay said that " if * The Pil- 
grim's Progress ' did not exist, it would be the best allegory that >/ 
ever was written." The " fair and delicate town " of Mansoul 
stands for the human race ; this town is first captured by " one 
Diabolus, a mighty giant," and after a vigorous siege is regained 
by its rightful owner King Shaddai, and his son Emanuel. In 
the centre of this town is " a most famous and stately palace, 
intended but for King Shaddai alone, and not another with him ;" 
this palace, the margent informs us, is the heart. In the same 
way the walls of the town are the body, and the five gates 
are the five senses. As may readily be seen, the allegory is not 
based upon symbolism, but is well-nigh as arbitrary as that of 
* The Purple Island,' which it somewhat resembles. The va rious 
qualities of human nature are personified, as Captain Resistance, 
who falls a victim to the" ambuscade of -Diabolus, whereupon the 
town speedily capitulates ; Lord Innocency is the next to fall. 
Other personifications are my Lord Understanding, the Lord 
Mayor; Mr. Conscience, the Recorder; Lord Will-be-will ; 
Captain Conviction and Captain Credence, chief in command 
under Prince Emanuel. The allegory is based upon the fanciful 
resemblance of the human body to a town, at times traced with . 
much ingenuity; and upon the never-ending contest between 
good and evil for the soul of man : it is, however, conducted 
largely by means of personifications acting in accordance with 
their names. Though the allegory of * The Holy War ' is more 
consistent and more curiously wrought than that of * The Pil- 
grim's Progress,' yet it is less interesting. The latter is the 
story of the toilsome journey of one man, which becomes to us 
a living reality, all the more because we know that Bunyan had 
trodden every step of the same road, because we recognize it in 
part ourselves, and know that we must follow on in the same 

18 The Life aod Death of Mr. Badman/ pp. X49-Z5a. 19 Ibid,^ pp, Z64-Z78. 



\ 



l64 HERBER T E VELETH GREENE, 

way. * The Holy War/ is the story of the entire race ; Mansoul 
renains an abstraction, and is lacking in human interest. 

B. The Dean of St Patrick's at first thought would seem to 
have little in common with the prisoner of Bedford jail, — the 
zealous churchman with the uncompromising dissenter. Unlike 
they were in many ways. Yet they resembled one another in 
their sturdy manliness and independence of character, in their 
vigorous hatred of sham, in their plain-speaking, and in an 
: equal degree in that all^ory seemed to be the natural form of 
expression for both. 

Swift's stock of figures seems to be almost as inexhaustible 
as Bunyan's ; but he appears to have sought them out, while 
Bunyan's seem to have come to him without seeking. With 
very littie effort, however, Swift had at command an almost 
unlimited number of figures, all of them apt and telling. Take, 
for example, the short Preface of the Author to * The Batde of 
the Books ;'** or this passage fi-om the first section of ' The Tale 
of a Tub :' " Wisdom is a fox, who, after long hunting, will at 
last cost you the pains to dig out ; it is a cheese, which, by how 
much the richer, has the thicker, the homelier, and the coarser 
coat ; and whereof, to a judicious palate, the maggots are the 
best : it is a sack-posset, wherein the deeper you go, you will 
find it the sweeter. Wisdom is a hen, whose cackling we must 
value and consider, because it is attended with an ^g^) but 
then lasdy, it is a nut, which, unless you choose with judgment, 
may cost you a tooth, and pay you with nothing but a worm."*' 
Certainly no one would suppose from reading the above passage 
that Swift's stock of metaphors was exhausted, or that he 
could not go on indefinitely with figures equally apt and well 
expressed. One can only wonder what Dr. Johnson under- 
stood by a metaphor, when he said that Swift's "few meta- 
phors seem to be received rather by necessity than choice."" 

The above passage will serve as well as more offensive pas- 
sages to illustrate the fact that Swift's figures are not merely 
f homely, but are almost uniformly degrading; any and all of 

so 'Works/ Vol. x, p. an. Waltbi Scott's wcond editioB of 1804, in nlocteea Tolum«; 
reprinted by Bicken & Son, London, 1883-84. ai IHd,, p. 71. 

ee * Life of Swift' In FontTn't ' Life of Swift ' there U n footaoce (p. szo) which 
quotes Dit. Jormsom as saying of Swirr that " The sly dog never Tentures at a metaphor ;" 
bat I have not been able to find the original of the quotation in Boswbll or elsewhere.— 
In Vol. xTii, p. 88, of Swings * Works ' U the foUowing note froes Dm. Waktoic : "A jusC 
character of Swift's poetry, as well as his prose, is, that it ' consists of proper words ia 
proper places.' Johnson said once to me, speaking of the simplicity of Swift's style, ' The 
rogue never hatards a figure.* " 



ALLEGOR Y IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT, 165 

them are worthy of a place as examples in ' The Art of Sinking 
in Poetry * by Martinus Scriblerus. Bunyan made free use 
of homely figures when they served his purpose ; but his eyes 
were never for a long time turned away from Heaven. Swift 
never seemed to have any purpose that was not served by 
degrading figures ; with sharp eyes and a keen scent for whatever 
was foul or unsighdy, his gaze was steadily fixed upon the earth, ^ 
or at least seldom rose above the heads of his fellow-mortals. 
This use of figures is without doubt largely to be attributed to 
the fact that Swift wrote little but satire; yet Matthew 
Arnold would have to institute a long search to find another 
figure so ennobling as that of the bees who " have chosen to 
fill their hives with honey and wax ; thus furnishing mankind 
with the two noblest of things, which are sweetness and light."*3 

Another characteristic which Swift shares with both Bunyan 
and Defoe is the air of probability that he gave to his narra- " 
tives. This he did by avoiding any appearance of literary art, 
and by the introduction of little details, irrelevant to the pur- 
pose of the narrative, but usefufTn giving to the whole story an 
air of verisimilitude. It is this same characteristic that gave so 
much force to Swift's practical jokes in the * Partridge Pam- 
phlets * and in the * Meditation upon a Broomstick.' Yet it 
must be admitted that Swift's bitterest satire, if * The Batde of 
the Books ' be excepted, is general in its nature ; his blows are 
aimed not so much at persons as at the vices and failings em- 
bodied in those persons. Pope's satire, though less vigorous, 
b more personal and more envenomed. 

Beyond a doubt * Gulliver's Travels ' is the most widely 
known and read of Swift's writings. Like *The Pilgrim's 
Progress' it has a great fascination for children, who read it 
merely for the story : it has had an equal interest for students 
and advocates of Utopian schemes of government In con- 
struction, however, it is inferior to other works by Swift ; it 
lacks any special unity of plan. Its movement is good, but its 
method is governed by whatever came first into Swift's mind. 
In its general outline the allegory is perfectly simple and clear ; 
with a hint or two regarding the political strife of Swift's time, 
it is readily understood by a bright boy of twelve years. That 
the Voyage to Lilliput is a satire upon the government of 
England under George I. and his Prime Minister, Sir Robert 

t3 ' Th« Battle of the Books; Works/ Vol. x, pp. 8a6, ss;. [Writlea before the death 
of ICatthbw Akmold.] 



l66 HERBER T E VELETH GREENE. 

Walpole ; and the Voyage to Brobdingnag a satire upon the 
government of William III., may readily be seen. Still more 
clearly noticeable is the supreme contempt that Swift felt for 
his own race, " the most pernicious race of little odious vermin, 
that nature ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the 
earth." '^ Scott mentions the fact that in the Voyage to Lilli- 
put the various pursuits, strifes, and ambitions of diis world are 
made to seem petty and ridiculous, by being attributed to 
creatures less than six inches in height ; while in the Voyage to 
Brobdingnag the vices of mankind seem all the more glarings 
when enacted by creatures many times larger.'^ 

A more scathing arraignment of Parliament and the manage- 
ment of public expenditures could hardly be written than that 
contained in the sixth chapter of the Voyage to Brobdingnag. 
Swift's disappointed ambition spoke his genuine belief where 
he says that the king " could not forbear taking me up in his 
right hand, and stroking me gendy with the other, after a hearty 
fit of laughing, asked me, * Whether I was a Whig or Tory V 
Then turning to his first minister, who waited behind him with 
a white staff, near as tall as the main-mast of the Royal Sover- 
eign, he observed, * How contemptible a thing was human 
grandeur, which could be mimicked by such diminutive insects 
as I : and yet,* says he, ' I dare engage, these creatures have 
their titles and distinctions of honor ; they contrive little nests 
and burrows, that they call houses and cities; they make a 
figure in dress and equipage ; they love, they fight, they dispute, 
they cheat, they betray !' "*^ How poor and insignificant a thing 
is human life, how petty and unimportant are human interests ! 
One would suppose that the Dean set no value upon his former 
influence at court and the favors that he had been able to dis- 
pense. 

The third and fourth parts are inferior to the first two, and 
those who have followed Thackeray's advice and have not 
read them have lost litde thereby. The air of probability, so 
closely maintained in the first half, is not preserved. The 
thought of a flying island is so unnatural as at once to awaken the 
reader's scepticism. The satire upon the employments of those 
who devote their time to pure mathematics and to speculative 
science, lacks the point of the satire of the first half of the 
work ; Dr. Arbuthnot's criticism of the third part is just, that 

84 * Works/ Vol. xi, p. z6a. 35 Ibid,^ p. 7, vol. i, p. 3x9. 
a6 ' Works/ Vol. xi, pp. z^o, 131 . 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUN VAN, AND SIVIFT. 167 

it is the least successful part of the work. Most striking is the 
description of the Struldbrugs, doomed to a helpless old age, — 
strange prophecy of Swift's last years. Of the Voyage to the 
Houyhnhnms nothing need be said except that it insults and 
degrades the whole human race. " I am Misanthropos, and 
hate mankind," might serve as a motto for the last half of 
• Gulliver's Travels ;* and so vigorous was the Dean's hatred, 
where he did hate, that he showed his repulsion by heaping 
upon the despised object all the filth that his imagination could 
conceive. As Leslie Stephen words it, " he becomes disgust- 
ing in the effort to express his disgust." But this gives us a 
one-sided view of Swift's character. In a letter to Pope he 
says, " I have ever hated all nations, professions, and communi- 
ties ; and all my love is toward individuals ; for instance, I hate 
the tribe of lawyers, but I love Counsellor Such-a-one, and Judge 
Such-a-one : It is so with physicians, (I will not speak of my 
own trade,) soldiers, English, Scotch, French, and the rest. But 
principally I hate and detest that animal called man ; although I 
heartily love John, Peter, Thomas, and so forth."*^ It is fortu- 
nate that we know of the hundreds of single instances, apart 
from his services to the Irish people as a whole, in which he 
literally went about doing good. 

" When once you have thought of big men and little men, it 
is very easy to do all the rest,"*^ said Dr. Johnson ; but the 
justice of his criticism cannot be admitted. The difficulty is, 
having conceived the idea, to carry it out with logical consis- 
tency in such a manner as not to disturb any of the ordinary 
relations of life save this one, thus bringing it into especial promi- 
nence. The air of verisimilitude, so perfect as to lead an Irish 
bishop to say that " the book w?is full of improbable lies, and 
for his part, he hardly believed a word of it,"'* — this, no other 
writer but Defoe could ever have succeeded in equaling, — cer- 
tainly not the author of * Rasselas.' 

As an allegory * Gulliver's Travels,' is very imperfect. The 
size of the Lilliputians and of the Brobdingnagians has no 
immediate connection with the allegory, which depends solely 
upon the transference of human qualities and interests to these 
peoples. Through them is expressed directly, and not by any 
transfer of meaning, the contempt which Swift felt for the 



37 'Works/ Vol. xvii, p. 4. a8 Boswell's 'Life of Johnson/ edited by Gbokcb Bikk< 
BBCK Hill; Vol. ii, p. 3x9. 
a9 " Letter to Pope," Nov. 17, X7«6 : * Works/ Vol. xvii, p. 80. 



x68 HERBER T E VELETH GREENE, 

human race. Except in the first part there is but little of con- 
tinued allegory, though there are scattered throughout the work 
allegorical allusions to matters of recent or contemporary his- 
tory. Instances of genuine allegory are the accounts of the 
methods of obtaining office and advancement at the court of 
Lilliput, of the high-heel and low-heel parties (Whigs and 
Tories), and of the Big-endians and Litde-endians (Roman 
Catholics and Protestants). Otherwise, except for stray sentences 
here and there, the allegory b general in its nature, and depends 
upon the degree of clearness and directness with which is ex- 
pressed the thought uppermost in Swift's mind, that of the 
worthlessness and insignificance of the human race and of all 
its hopes and ambitions. This is frequendy expressed by 
means of irony, which is akin to allegory ;y> often, however, it is 
stated so directly that the passage in question has no rightful 
claim to the name of allegory. 

More worthy of the name is *The Batde of the Books.' 
Stated briefly, the contest as to the relative merits of ancient and 
modem writers between Bentley and Wotton on the one hand 
and Sir William Temple and Boyle on the other, is transferred 
fi*om the literary arena to an actual battlefield, and is described in 
, the guise of an Homeric battle, with appropriate speeches and 
similes. The writers ancient and modem, together with their 
respective champions, appear in person and under their proper 
names ; personifications, such as Criticism, Ignorance, Dulness, 
and Pedantry, are also introduced as characters. It is tme, 
indeed, that the narrative says one thing and means another ; 
but the transfer from a literary to an actual batde is so slight 
that, with the exception of a few scattered allusions, all the 
meaning seems to lie on the surface. 

That Swift was able, when he chose, to fulfil the conditions 
of the allegory is abundandy proved by *The Tale of a Tub.* 
This work, written before he had reached his thirtieth year, is 
full of spirit, wit, and power. The reader of such vigorous and 
effective English, employed with so much directness and point, 
cannot but sympathize with the feeling which prompted him to 
say in his old age, when his mind was gradually failing, '' Good 
God, what a genius I had when I wrote that book !" Not only 
4 is the book his masterpiece, but it is also his best allegory ; 

30 Of. Quiimi«IAN, * Inst. Ormtor/ ▼!{{, 6, 54. In «o rero geaere, quo contraria o«ten- 
dunttir, ironia est ; Ulusiooein Tocant. Quae aut pronuntiatiooe Intelligitur aut persona aut 
rei natura; nam, si an* -^tl^ dissaatit, apparet divenam etse oratloni Tohimatein . 

Much the tame -d of Enpbeakm ; perhaps also of Litotes. 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUN VAN, AND SWIFT. 169 

indeed one would hazard little in making the assertion that it is 
the best sustained allegory that ever was written. 

Three brothers, born at a birth, named Peter, Martin, and 
Jack, represent the Roman Catholics, the Church of England, 
and the Dissenters. To these brothers their fathers had 
bequeathed a coat with strict injunctions never to make any 
alteration in it ; this coat is evidently the Christian religion. In 
his will, that is, the Bible, were careful instructions as to how the 
coat should be worn. After seven years, that is, centuries, of 
faithful obedience, the brothers fell in with three ladies in great 
reputation at that time, the Duchess d'Argent, Madame de 
Grand Titres, and the Countess d'Orgueil. A short digression 
gives us the germ of the "clothes-philosophy," afterwards 
developed by Carlyle, whereby fine feathers make fine birds. 
This philosophy being in vogue at that time, as since, the three 
brothers found their coats decidedly out of fashion and them- 
selves out of favor. Though the will said not a word about 
shoulder-knots, which were then "the only wear," yet one of 
the brothers, " more book-learned than the other two," found 
that the various letters of the word could be picked out sepa- 
rately, with the exception of K ; and it was soon discovered that 
C was the equivalent of K. The interpretation is obvious. In 
the same skillful manner are allegorized tampering with manu- 
scripts, oral tradition, the use of images, withholding the Bible 
from the common people, the temporal sovereignty of the Pope, 
the doctrine of purgatory, penance, confession, absolution, 
indulgences, holy water, the celibacy of the clergy, transub- 
standaticHi, withholding the cup from the laity. Starting with 
the three brothers, the coat, and the will, as the basis of his 
allegory, he follows with amazing ingenuity the history of the 
Church through the centuries of corruption to the Reformation, 
and thence onward far enough to show the divisions that arose 
after the Reformation and the growth of sects. Such close and 
logical correspondence between the sign and the thing signified, 
it would be difficult to parallel elsewhere in an allegory that 
possesses a vital interest. 

Macaulay's statement that *The Tale of a Tub* swarms 
with errors 3* in the conduct of its allegory, is not borne out by 
examination. Some parts, indeed, are expressed more direcdy. 
than others; such are the celibacy of the clergy and the tem- 
poral power of the Pope, which it is scarcely possible to express 

31 '* EiMj on Bunymn,** 1830. 



I70 



HERBERT EVELETH GREENE. 



Otherwise than directly. In the entire narrative there are no 
personifications save those named above of wealth, ambition and 
pride. The allegory is necessarily historical, and that this is not 
the highest kind of allegory I shall have occasion later to show. 
In such an allegory and with the kind of figures that Swift 
habitually employed, there was litde opportunity for true and 
ennobling symbolism. Setting aside all that should be deducted 
for the absence of two so important aids to the highest degree 
of success, and bearing in mind what Swift undertook to do, 
his allegory is well nigh perfect The main lines of his narra- 
tive were already marked out for him ; troublesome details he 
could omit, if he chose, but in the more important points he 
had no power of choice. His task was to contrive a close cor- 
respondence to the actual history of the church ; and this he did 
in a masterly manner. 

Less than one third of * The Tale of a Tub ' is concerned 
with the actual subject ; about one third is occupied by dedica- 
tions and preface, and more than a third by digressions. This 
certainly does not give an impression of unity ; and I must con- 
fess to skipping all the digressions, in my first reading of the 
work. Foster says that in all Swift's writing " whether the 
subject be great or small, everything in it from the first word to 
the last is essentially a part of it ; not an episode or allusion 
being introduced merely for itself, but every minutest point not 
only harmonizing or consisting with the whole, but expressly 
supporting and strengthening it "3* Another passage, a few 
lines farther on will make clear the meaning of that already 
quoted : " Proper significance has never by any of his biog- 
raphers or critics been given to the fact that die corruptions 
of religion and the abuses of learning handled in the ' Tale of 
a Tub ' are but the continued pursuit, in another form, of the 
controversy between the claims of ancients and moderns."33 
An explanation like that given above is certainly needed to 
remove the feeling that Swift is riding two horses at once. 
The digression upon " clothes-philosophy " is a necessary part 
of the work ; and the eighth section on inspiration and fanatical 
pretenders thereto forms a fitting introduction to the further his- 
tory of Jack : but the Digression concerning Critics, the Digres- 
sion in the Modem Kind, and the Digression in praise of Digres- 
sions, are directed against Bentley and Wotton as truly as 
any part of * The Battie of the Books,' and would be equally 

p 'Life of Swift,* p. loB. 33. Ihid,^ p. X09. 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT, 171 

in place, if printed with that work. The spirit of both books is 
the same, that it is to the ancients that we must go for the foun- 
tain-heads of wisdom and truth ; and the digressions, while they 
interrupt the unity of the narrative, nevertheless strengthen the 
general impression. 

After one has read the unclerical language of this Rabelais 
perfeciiontU, much as he may admire its wit and power, he has 
no feeling of surprise that Swift failed to receive the bishopric 
which he so earnestly desired, and for which his own mental 
and executive powers so well fitted him. It is true that his 
satire is aimed at the abuses of religion, and not at religion 
itself; and it is also true that Swift could claim that his ridi- 
cule was directed only against Roman Catholics and Dbsenters, 
and was really in the service of the Established Church ; but it 
was dangerous to give preferment to one who, with so little 
regard for conventionalities, might turn so powerfiil a pen 
against the church which had honored him. 

^' C. In what mood ought the reader to approach Spenser? 

'Sa)rs Coleridge, "No one can appreciate Spenser without 
some reflection on the nature of allegorical writing :"3^ Milton 
in the * Areopagitica ' calls him, "Our sage and serious poet 
Spenser, whom I dare be known to think a better teacher than 
Scotus or Aquinas.*' On the other hand, Hazlitt tells us that 
if people " do not meddle with the allegory, the allegory will 
not meddle with them ;"35 and Lowell declares that " we may 
fidrly leave the allegory on one side.'*3* 

**A perfect judge will read each work of wit / o^P^ ' 
With the same spirit that its author writ/* ^ 

and Spenser in his letter to Sir Walter Raleigh, added to the 
first three books of " The Faerie Queene,' has made clear the 
spirit in which the poem was written : " The generall end there- 
/ fore of all the booke is to fafhion a gendeman or noble perfon 
in vertuous and gende difcipline." Evidendy Spenser did not 
feel that the allegory could be left on one side ; it was of first 
importance that its meaning be clearly understood. " Knowing 
how doubtfully all Allegories may be conftrued, and this booke 

of mine being a continued Allegory, or darke conceit, 

I have thought good afwell for auoyding of gealous opinions 
and mifconstructions, as alfo for your better light in reading 
thereof, to discover unto you the general intention and 

34 'Wofks/ American Edition, Vol. iv, p.947. 35 'Lectures on the English Poets:' 
Lecture ii. 36 'Among my Books/ Vol. ii, p. 177* 



A 



1 72 HERBER T E VELETH GREENE. 

meaning, which in the whole courfe thereof I have fafhioned." 
I see no reason for doubting Spenser's words as to his purpose 
in writing, mingled though that purpose may have been with 
flattery, hopes of worldly gain, and a desire for fame ; and it is 
as an allegory that I wish to consider ' The Faerie Queene.' 

A poet must meet the same requirements as a writer of prose, 
both in narrative and in allegory. Indeed poets themselves are 
the severest critics in this matter. It is expected that a poet be 
briefer and more direct in his utterance than a writer of prose. 
This directness and brevity give to the winged words of a poet 
increase of power, and win for him a more attentive hearing. No 
demurrer then should be made by a poet's admirers, if he, too, 
is held closely to the requirements of movement, method, and 
unity. 

The longest poem in English that is read ought certainly to 
have method; and at first thought 'The Faerie Queene' is 
admirably planned in this respect. Each book is to have as its 
central figure a knight, dedicated to the service of " the greatest 
Gloriana, Queene of Faerie lond," who is to embody one of 
•* the twelue priuate morall vertues, as Ariftode hath deuifed." 
The adventures of these knights in their various quests are to 
be bound together through Prince Arthur, in whom the poet 

" fets forth magnificence in particular, which vertue is 

the perfection of all the reft, and conteineth in it them all." The 
scheme itself is good, and promises both method and unity ; 
the difficulty is in carrying it out successfully, when it is planned 
on so extensive a scale that the adventures of one knight occupy 
a space equal to half the Odyssey. Had Spenser lived to 
write the second six books, and then " to firame the other part 
of poUiticke vertues" in twelve additional books, we should 
have a poem of the length of twelve Odysseys. In its frag- 
mentary form of six books, longer than the Iliad and the 
Odyssey together, it frightens away readers ; Macaulay, often 
as he alludes to * The Faerie Queene,* and omnivorous reader 
though he was, betrays the fact that he never made his way to 
the end of the poem. And in truth Spenser's own energy and 
interest in his work seem to have flagged more than once. We 
do not suspect him of weariness when he says at the beginning, 
of the last canto of Book I : — 

"Behold I fee the hauen nigh at hand, 

To which I meane my wearie courfe to bend ;" 37 

37 * The Faerie Queene/ Book I., Canto xii, Sunza z. 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT. 173 

but the thought can scarcely be avoided when twenty thousand 
verses farther on we find him vigorously disclaiming any 
fatigue,— 

**The waies, through which my wearie fteps I guyde 

In^this deligbtfttlL.iand of JFaery, 

Are fo exceeding fpacious and wyde. 

And fprinckled with fuch fweet variety, 

Of all that pleafant is to eare or eye. 

That I nigh rauif ht with rare thoughts delight, 

My tedious trauell doe forget thereby ; 

And when I gin to feele decay of might, 
It ftrength to me fupplies, & chears my dulled fpright.**38 

In the first three books Spenser brings before us so many 
characters that they become unmanageable. He has already 
failed to make good his claim, when he says. 

" Like as a fhip, that through the Ocean wyde 
Directs her courfe vnto one certaine coft. 
Is met of many a counter winde and tyde, 
With which her winged fpeed is let and croft. 
And f he her felfe in ftormie furges toft ; 
Yet making many a borde, and many a bay. 
Still winneth way, ne hath her compaffe loft ; 
Right fo it fares with me in this long way, 

Whofe courfe is often ftayd, but neuer is aftray.*'39 

As he tries to pick up the stray threads of his narrative, he 
himself sometimes forgets what his characters did last and what 
they are to do next. At the end of canto vi, in Book I, Sir 
Satyrane is fighting with the Paynim knight Sansloy, while Una 
is fleeing for safety. Spenser says that to tell " this battels 
end will need another place," but of the result of this batde we 
never heard a word. In the remaining sixty-six cantos of the 
poem Spenser's attention was too much occupied to remember 
Sansloy, whom he did not need again ; and when he wishes the 
help of Sir Satyrane twenty-five cantos farther on, he has forgot- 
ten that he left him fighting. When the Amazonian princess, 
Radigund, by guile subdued Artegall, "for feare of further 
harmes '* she broke his sword Chrysaor ;^<* yet in the same book 
we find Artegall slaying the giant Grantorto with the same 
sword/* In answer to the dwarf Dony, who tells him of the 

loss of Florimel, Prince Arthur says, 

" For till thou tidings learne, what her betide, 
I here auow thee neuer to forfake.^a 

Yet in the fourth book Arthur makes his customary appearance 

38 'The Faerie Queeoe/ vi, Imroduction x. 39 *Thc Faerie Queene/ vi., xii, x. 
40 * The Faerie Queeoe,' V, v, ex, 41 thid,t xii, sj. 4a lbid.t\\\^ v, xx. 



1 74 HERBER T E VELETH GREENE. 

in the eighth canto and overcomes Corfiambo, while he has 

apparently forgotten his promise to the dwarf who appears 

alone in the fifth book/3 The girdle of Florimel, which Vulcan 

made for Venus, the test of wifely constancy, certainly fills an 

important place in the fourth and fifth cantos of Book IV. ; first 

there is jousting for its possession, and afterward the ladies 

strive to see who can wear it This girdle which Florimel has 

lost in the third book/^ when mentioned in the fifth book has 

become a scarf.^5 

These are some of the most glaring discrepancies in the poem, 

but the list might be extended ; in the second edition of the first 

three books, Spenser corrected one serious error of the 

kind.^* Without attributing too much importance to such errors, 

for a single case of inadvertence would not be worth noticing, it 

is evident that * The Faerie Queene * b planned upon so large a 

scale as to be unwieldy, if not unmanageable. 

*• Now turne againe my teme thou icily fwayne, 
Backe to the furrow which I lately left ; 
I lately left a furrow, one or twayne 
Vnplough'd, the which my coulter hath not cleft. "47 

So extensive is the field that Spenser has to till, that he has 

constantly to turn back to furrows, not merely one or twayne in 

number, that he has left unfinished. The effect upon the reader 

is confusing ; he is less able than Spenser to keep clearly in 

mind the inter-relation of the different characters, their aims 

and failures in the various quests undertaken. 

^--- The movement of * The Faerie Queene * is usually constant 

( and rapid ; but the progress of the principal narrative is some- 

M times unduly delayed by the action of minor characters. More- 

J over, Spenser occasionally resorts to what looks very like 

Vpadding to fill out the measure of twelve cantos to each book. 

We are unwilling to give up anything that a genius has written, 

whether it be worthy of his best powers or not ; but I cannot 

look upon the Marriage of the Thames and the Medway,** 

with its catalogue of sea-nymphs, as anything but so much 

padding, poetically treated indeed, but suggesting too strongly 

the interminable ' Polyolbion.' Much less endurable are the 

genealogies of Prince Arthur^^ and of the descendants of 

Artegall,5o which serve the double purpose of padding and of 

flattery. 

43 * The Faerie Queene,* V, il, s. 44 ' The Faerie Queene/ III., rfi, 36. 
45 1»id„W., Ji,3. 46 Ibid.^ II. ix, 7, and II, ix. 38. 47 ' The Faerie Queene/ VI, ix, x. 
^'Tfac Faerie Queenr 4f.,ll,x. y> 'KiK*»^VV^\^\. 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BVNYANAND SWIFT, 175 

Not much more can be said of the unity of the work. Un- 
doubtedly Spenser intended to create an unity of interest by 
the character of Prince Arthur; but he certainly did not 
succeed in doin^ so. Prince Arthur, notwithstanding the 
glowing description that Spenser gives of him, does not 
make upon the mind so definite an impression as the Red Cross 
Knight, Sir Guyon, Sir Artegall, or Sir Calidore. Bishop Hurd 
sa3rs that the poem has "an unity of design, and not of 
action ;"5« but the difficulty is that the execution is greatly 
inferior to the original plan. It would have been well if Spen- 
ser had been content with Prince Arthur as a connecting link 
between the different books. No important purpose is sub- 
served, and little interest is added by the re-appearance of char- 
acters from earlier books in the midst of new adven-'' 
tures undertaken by new characters. Especially is this true 
of the re-appearance of leading characters, like that 
of the Red Cross Knight in Book II, and again in Book III ; 
his quest is successfully acomplished, and nothing is gained by 
his continuance as a character of minor importance. Each 
knight while on his quest falls into difficulties from which he is 
relieved by frince Arthur, who usually makes his appearance 
uTthe eighth canto. In the third book, however, where the 
adventure is undertaken by Britomart, "a lady knight,*' Prince 
Arthur has little to do, and is unsuccessful in what he attempts ; 
though Belphoebe comes upon the scene in this book, Brito- 
mart is never overcome and needs no aid. Thomas Warton 
sa)rs : " The poet might either have established twelve knights 
without an Arthur, or an Arthur without twelve knights,"5« and 
here, at least, he seems to be right. The character of Prince v 
Arthur is more necessary to the allegory than to the story. It 
would have simplified the narrative greatly, if the adventurous 
knights, since each must accomplish his quest unaided, had on 
leaving the court gone in different directions, instead of taking 
paths that would cross ; Faery land is wide enough for this, had 
the poet thus chosen. It is easier to read and remember six 
stories entirely independent, than six stories essentially inde- 
pendent, but nevertheless interwoven. 

/ Much of Spenser's allegory is historical, and this introduces 
' additional complications. When an allegory is entirely histori- 
cal, the whole interest is in tracing out the history which is 



St ToDD*s Edition of Sp«ns«r, Vol II, p. dviii. 

fi *ObMnr»tioM on Um Fatry Queen of Spenser :' Vol, i, p. xo. 



176 HERBER T E VELE TH GREENE. 

"dowdily enwrapped" therein, and in noting the ingenuity 
with which the narrative is constructed and the correspondence 
maintained ; but where there is also a moral or spiritual alle- 
gory, the interest is transferred to that which is higher, and 
the historical meaning is felt to be an intrusion, or at best an 
addition. Moral or spiritual allegory is a greater tax upon the 
poet's invention, because he is required to construct two narra- 
tives, the one expressed by appropriate images suggesting that 
which is suppressed ; more is demanded of him, but he is free 
to follow the bent of his imagination. In historical allegory the 
task laid upon the inventive power is to translate actual occur- 
rences into other events, so arranged as to progress with the 
X naturalness of life, provided a clue be given at the outset. Of 
this kind of allegory the best example is, as I have said, ' The 
Tale of a Tub.' 

When, hqwever, an attempt is made to combine an historical 
meaning with a moral allegory, one or the other is likely to 
suffer thereby ; it is scarcely possible that both shall be equally 
\ distinct. The historical meaning may add to the interest, but it 
will usually detract from the power of the spiritual meaning. 
This is true of Spenser's allegory. Where a spiritual meaning 
is clearly set forth, the historiod meaning is so slight as scarcely 
to be noted ; but as the historical meaning becomes more prom- 
inent, the spiritual meaning gradually recedes into the back- 
ground and vanishes from sight. If we are told that Sir Cali- 
dore is Sir Philip Sidney and that Timias is Sir Walter Raleigh, 
we may answer that the fact is interesting, but that the poem is 
none the finer for it: if we are told. that Blandamour is the Earl 
of Northumberland and Paridel the Earl of Westmoreland, we 
may rightfully answer : that is nothing to me ; Unap nd Sir 
Guyon interest me more. The spiritual and moral allegory 
must always be a higher form than the historical : the latter is 
curious, while the former may be much more than that. 

The interest of an historical allegory must depend upon the 
importance of the events depicted in it, and upon the degree of 
information possessed by the reader. As regards the first, 
Spenser was fortunate in that he lived in the most interesting 
period of English history, and among men and women in whom 
the world will always have interest ; and either his friendships 
were so fortunate or his instinct so true, that few of the historical 
characters whom he has placed in *The Faerie Queene* are 
unimportant or uninteresting. The obscurity of the historical 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT. 177 

allusions was often intentional; it was necessary that events 
fresh in the minds of men should "be shewed at half-lights." 
Such, for example, is the allusion to Queen Elizabeth's discov- 
ery of Sir Walter Raleigh's intrigue with Elizabeth Throck- 
morton,53 and the displeasure that was visited upon both.s^ 
Regard for Spenser's own welfare would forbid his doing 
more than to hint obscurely at the questionable acts of noble- 
men whose families were still powerful ; in his description of the 
trial of Mary, Queen of Scots, he could not venture to indicate 
more plainly than he has done, the Earls of Westmoreland, 
Northumberland, and Leicester, and the Lord Treasurer Bur- 
' leigh.55 Doubdess for the purpose of sheltering himself Spen- 
^SER intentionally makes his allegory inconsistent. Queen 
Elizabeth is Britomart and Belphoebe in the same book ; Eliz- 
abeth Throckmorton is Amoret in Book IV, and Serena in Book 
VI ; yet Serena is not married to Timias. So in many other 
cases the allegory is designedly obscure. Sir Philip Sidney vs^ 
Sir Calidore. Is he ever Prince Arthur ? And is the Earl of 
Leicester always intended by Prince Arthur? He must be in 
Book V. Queen Elii^beth is Gloriana ; she is also Belphoebe, 
Mercilla, Tanaquil, perhaps Britomart, possibly Amoret. Mary, 
Queen of Scots, is Duessa, perhaps Amoret and Florimel. Such 
inconsistency and obscurity may have been necessary in a poem 
to be read by those who could interpret more readily and more 
unerringly then we can ; but, whether necessary or not, it is a 
blemish. The allegory is rendered obscure ; and to the extent 
that it is obscure or doubtful, it is valueless for us. 

To three men in especial. Sir Philip Sidney, Lord Grey of 
Wilton, and the Earl of Leicester, Spenser looked as his 
patrons and friends. Remembering what friendship meant in 
the sixteenth century, that it was placed even above wedded 
love, we cannot call it flattery that he gives to each of these 
friends a high place in his poem. That he spoke none too 
highly of the first is universally admitted ; and though Talus, 
rather than Sir Artegall, might seem to be the better represen- 
tative of Lord Grey, yet we honor Spenser all the more for 
adhering to his former patron after he had lost the royal favor. 
Upon the Earl of Leicester alone can we say that Spenser's 
praise is bestowed unworthily ; it is useless to attempt to explain 
the contrast between Spenser's real and his ideal hero. Of Sir 
Walter Raleigh it must be said that Spenser does not spare 



33 ' Th0 FamU Queene,' IV, vll, 36. $4 /*«., VI, v\. 55 * TY^ T%ftT\t Qut!tt»; V , U , 



1 78 HERBER T E VELETH GREENE. 

him, and that "the Shepheard of the Ocean" does not make a 

very creditable appearance in thb poem. Knowing as we do 

from * Mother Hubberds Tale ' and from ' The Ruines of Time ' 

what were Spenser's real feelings toward Lord Burleigh, we 

must look upon the dedicatory sonnet to him as a piece of 

flattery. 

One historical allusion Spenser takes no pains to veil. Under 

whatever name he sings the praises of Queen Elizabeth, all the 

world may know the subject of his song. Remembering all 

that had happened in Queen Elizabeth's reign to call forth the 

patriotism of her subjects, and how worthy she was of their love 

and admiration, we cannot call it flattery, when he writes of her 

as follows : 

" Thus fhe did fit in fouerayne Maieftie, 
Holding a Scepter in her royall hand, 
The facred pledge of peace and clemencie, 
With which high God had bleft her happie land, 
Maugre fo many foes, which did withftand. 
But at her feet her fword was likewife layde, 
Whofe long reft rufted the bright fteely brand ; 
Yet when as foes enforft, or friends fought ayde, 
She could it ftemely draw, that all the world difmayde. 

• ••••••• 

Thus did fhe fit in royall rich eftate, 

Admyr*d of many, honoured of all. — "56 

Of such praise we can only say that it is just and fitting. But 
when he sings of her beauty in rapturous strains, when he attrib- 
utes to her a superlative share in every virtue that he mentions, 
when he calls her the " Queene of Love," and uses language 
like the following of a woman sixty-three years old : — 

*' Do thou dred infant, Venus dearling doue. 
From her high fpirit chafe imperious feare. 
And vfe of awfull Maieftie remoue : 
In fted thereof with drops of melting loue, 
Deawd with ambrof iall kifTes, by thee gotten 
From thy fweete fmyling mother from above, 
Sprinckle her heart, and haughtie courage foften, 
That fhe may hearke to love, and reade this leffon often, **S7 

to such language we can give no name but flattery. Under 
whatever name he speaks of Queen Elizabeth, — Gloriana, Bel- 
phoebe, or fairest Tanaquil, — her beauty must be praised. He 
does not venture to extol the beauty and virtues of his wife 
without offering an apology : 

$6 • The F««ric Queene/ V, ix, 30, 33. 57 * T\« ¥ftm« \^u««&!t; \N »\«x, v 



ALLEGOR Y IN SPENSER, BUN VAN, AND SWIFT, 179 

" Sunne of the world, great glory of the fky, 

That all the earth doeft lighten with thy rayes, 

Great Gloriana, greateft Maiefty, 

Pardon thy fhepheard, mongft fo many layes» 

As he hath fung of thee in all his dayes» 

To make one minime of thy poore handmayd/'s^ 

" It is often ludicrous/' says Christopher North, "to wit- 
ness SPENSEk's trepidation on finding that he had gone too far 
in praise of beauty. Whether speaking in his own character or 
that of another, he checks himself at full speed and lugs in the 
Queen. Sure as fate, there comes in that everlasting Cynthia.'*59 

Much faithful study has been given to the allegory of ' The 
Faerie Queene' by editors and critics; and it is probably 
understood as well now as it ever will be. Notwithstanding all^ 
the time that has been spent upon it, the allegory in many 
points remains obscure. If this obscurity was necessary in the/ 
historical meaning, we have certainly a right to expect that the 
mo ral allego ry shall be clear; that while much of the poet*s 
meaning may be apparent only to the thoughtful reader, an 
earnest effort to discover it shall not go unrewarded. In its 
broad general features the allegory is unmistakably clear ; but ' 
numerous details, which in a continued allegory are supposed to 
possess some significance, are very obscure. This doubtful 
meaning meets us so soon as the third canto of the first book, 
the most consistent and carefully planned of all. Una, forsaken 
by the Red Cross Knight, is defended by a lion. This lion, 
says KiTCHiN, is ** the emblem of natural honor, paying the 
tribute of instinctive reverence to Truth ;" Ruskin explains it^ 
as " Violence which makes her dreaded wherever she comes :" 
Upton says it means " King Henry VIII and his accession to the 
Reformed Church." None of these interpretations is-unreason-^ 
able, but they cannot all be true. The last is the most prob- 
able, especially when we remember the slaying of Kirkrapine 
in the house of Corceca (Blind Devotion) and Abessa (Monastic 
Superstition), which may best be referred to the suppression of 
the monasteries in the reign of King Henry VIII. If this is the 
true interpretation, the allegory is historical ; then the question 
arises, has it also a spiritual meaning. Though there is some 
similarity in the last two interpretations, an allegory that is 
capable of three explanations differing so widely cannot be 
called clear. 

S8 ' The Faerie Queene/ VI, x, 98. 59 BUukwootTs Magaxime^ Nov. 1833 : Vol. xxxiv, 

i>.a«9. 



jSo HERBER T E VELETH GREENE. 

There is a like difficulty in understanding who are meant by 
the parents of Una, 

" that auncient Lord and aged Queene, 
Arayd in antique robes downe to the ground," 

so long '* emjM-ifoned in the brafen towre." They are the 
Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments, says Christopher 
North, and it is certainly appropriate that Truth should be the 
child of the Scriptures. He sets aside his own interpretation, 
however, in favor of that of Upton : Adam is the lather of 
Una, — the first Adam who lost Eden through the power of the 
dragon, but was restored to it by "the Messiah, the second 
Adam," imaged in the Christian knight. Surely it is inappro- 
priate that Una, — Christian Truth, — should be represented as 
the child of the first Adam. 

At the end of Book I. Una and the Red Cross Knight are 
happily betrothed to one another : if this means that Holiness 
and Truth are made one, then why does Holiness shordy take 
his departure for the court of the Faerie Queene ? The truth 
is that Una and the Red Cross Knight are not the same person3 
at the end of the book as they were when they began their 
journey in company. First "a tall clownifh younge man," 
then a knight beset with human weaknesses, struggling and sin- 
ning, yet not utterly cast down, then " Saint George of mery 
England,'' perhaps England itself, finally the Messiah, who 
regains the paradise lost by the first Adam, and departs into 
heaven (for so we must interpret the court of the Faerie 
Queene), leaving here below the struggling Una, type of the 
church militant. So Una undergoes a change of character the 
reverse in its nature of that experienced by the Red Cross 
Knight. At the beginning of the book sh^ is the immaculate 
guide and counsellor of the Red Cross Knight, who would often 
go astray, if it were not for her warnings ; at the end there is a 
sudden change in her relation to him. This discrepancy cannot 
be explained satis&ctorily. Una cannot be at one and the same 
time the child of the first Adam, Christian Truth, and the church 
militant ; and it is difficult to see where the transition is made. 

In one of a most interesting and suggestive series of articles 
in Blackwood's Magazine for 1834, 1835, Christopher North 
says in his exuberant manner that would fain take the reader by 
storm and make his judgment captive, "*An allegory,' sa)rs 
Hughes, somewhat netded, ' which is not dear, is a riddle ;' and 
conscious, perhaps that he was Inmself no CEdli^us, he is intol- 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT. i8l 

erant of Sphinx."^ This is not criticism. Must the reader, 
then, be an CEdipus, if he is to fathom the meaning of * The 
Faerie Queene ? It is evident that much of the interpretation 
is nothing more than skilful guesswork. If the teaching of 
moral truth is a writer's confessed aim, it is not too much to 
demand that the truth shall be set forth in terms that shall be 
intelligible to the thoughtful reader ; otherwise his work is cer- ^ 
tain to meet the fate of all obscure writers, that of being misun- 
derstood, if not neglected. Such has been the fate of * The Faerie 
Queene * at the hands of many readers ; only a man of abun- 
dant leisure can read the poem as Spenser would have it read. 
Yet no allegory, save those of Dante and of Goethe, has 
ever been studied with more loving care than that of Spenser. 
The very fact that the poem requires so much study to get at 
its true meaning, and will yield such varying interpretations, is 
a proof of its obscurity. 

^ It remains to be said tha t much of 'The Faerie Queene* b ^ 
not genuine allegory, though it usually passes under that name. 
The House of Pride, where Pride and her " six sage counsel- 
lors," Idlenesse, Gluttony, Lechery, Avarice, Envy, and Wrath, 
pass in procession before us is an instance, not of allegory, but 
of vivid personifica tion. There is no hidden meaning ; nothing 
is suppressed, but we are told in the most direct manner that 
Pride, that sin by which the angels fell, has as attendants and 
companions, the rest of the seven deadly sins. There is no 
attempt at concealment; rather the attempt is at complete 
identification. The same is true of Error, Sansloy and his 
brothers, and Despair in the first book ; these are personifica- 
tions, while Una, the Red Cross Knight, Duessa, Archimago, 
Orgoglio, are allegorical characters. In the case of the last, but 
not of the first, " more is meant than meets the ear." In the "^^ 
character of Una, Spenser might have stopped at the personi- 
fication of the abstract idea of Truth ; but he did more than 
this. In much of the action in which Una takes part the hidden 
meaning differs from the surface meaning, thus making her an 
allegorical character. That is to say, personifications 
may become allegorical, not by virtue of being 
personifications, but by taking part in allegor- 

^ical action. ^ 

The difference between personification and allegory was 

60 Blaekwccd'9 MagoMhu, Sqpt. 1834; Vol. xxxri, p. 415. 



i82 HERBER T EVELETH GREENE. 

pointed out by Hallam,^* and long before him by Lessing,^ 
who makes a distinction between the personified abstractions <^ 
the poet and the allegorical figures indicated by symbols of the 
artist. Allegorical symbols, which are necessary to the artist, 
he asserts are out of keeping in poetry, since poetry needs, not 
symbolical, or as he calls them allegorical attributes, but what 
he terms poetical attributes. Lessing's point of view is dif- 
ferent from the present, as he is treating of the use of allegory 
in painting and in sculpture, and of the limitations of its use in 
poetry as contrasted with the limits of pictorial art; but he 
makes precisely the distinction that I wish to emphasize, with 
the further deduction that personifications become allegorical 
' only through action. 

This again makes clear the distinction that personification 
aims at presenting a thought vividly and definitely, while sym- 
bolism expresses it indefinitely to the imagination. Take one of 
Spenser's most vivid personifications : 

** And next to him malicious Enuie rode, 
Vpon a rauenous wolfe, and (till did chaw 
Betweene his cankred teeth a venemous tode. 
That all the poifon ran about his chaw ; 
But inwardly he chawed his owne maw 
At neighbours wealth, that made him euer fad ; 
For death it was, when any good he faw, 
And wept, that caufe of weeping none he had, 
But when he heard of harme, he wexed wondrous glad. 

He hated all good workes and vertuous deeds, 
And him no leffe, that any like did vse, 
And who with gracious bread the hungry feeds, 
His almes for want of faith he doth accufe ; 
So every good to bad he doth abufe : 
And eke the verfe of famous Poets witt 
He does backebitfe, and fpightfull poifon fpues 
From leprous mouth on all, that euer writt ; 

Such one vile Enuie was, that lift in row did fitt.*'63 

This is masterly as personification, so vivid that nothing is left 

^for the imagination to do.^ Spenser may have meant more 

than he said in the last four verses, but they can scarcely be 

called allegorical. There is symbolism in the following stanza : — 

"All in a kirtle of difcolourd fay 

He clothed was, ypainted full of eyes ; 

6z * Introduction to the Literature of Europe/ American edition ; Vol. ii, p. 231. 6a Sec 
Note A, pp. 199-193: quotation from Lbssino*s 'Laocoon.' 

63 ' The Faerie Queene/ I, iv, 30, 33. 64 Aubrey Db Vbrb calls this rulgar allegory ; 
rather it is repulsive, as Spsnsbk intended it to be. 



A 



ALLEGOR Y IN SPENSER, BUN VAN, AND SIVIFT, 183 

And in his bofome fecretly there lay 
An hatefull Snake, the which his taile vptyes 
In many folds, and mortall fting implyes. 
Still as he rode, he gnafht his teeth, to fee 
Thofe heapes of gold with griple Covetyfe, 
And grudged at the great felicitie 
Of proud Luci/era, and his ownc companie ;*'65 

but the impression left by the whole passage is that of a distinct 
personification. The characterization in the last two verses is 
equal to that of the miser in MoLifeRE's ' L'Avare,' who, when 
his gold had disappeared, suspected every one including him- 
self. Compare the whole passage with Clcugh's allegory, and 
note again how the suggestiveness of the latter sets the reader's 
imagination at work and imposes no bounds upon it. 

The second book is a work of fiction through which there 
runs a slight vein of allegory. Sir Guj^on and Acrasia are hero 
and heroine much in the same sense mat Elinor £Cnd Marianne 
Dashwood are the heroines of * Sense and Sensibility ;' that is 
to say, they are types of character. The purpose of the book 
is to teach the lesson of Temperance, and this is done in the^ 
most direct manner. At the beginning of the book the death 
of Mordant through excess in drink and of his wife, Amavia, 
through immoderate grief, serves as a warning against lack of 
self-restraint. The second canto teaches by what means self- 
restraint is to be gained; neither by total abstinence nor by^ 
indulgence,, but by the Aristotelian doctrine of the mean. Of 
this abstract doctrine Perissa, Medina, and Elissa, furnish con-^ 
Crete illustrations. Braggadochio and Belphoebe are personifi- 
cations of boastful cowardice and of the serene majesty that v 
knows no fear. The lesson of temperance is continued in the 
episode of Phedon, who is the victim of immoderate wrath, 
jealousy, grief, and love, and who is given over into the power 
of Furor. In the same vein. Sir Guyon overcomes Cymochles 
and Pyrochles, personifications of ungovernable passion, sons 
of Wrath and Despight, and brothers of Anger ; thus he has 
withstood successfully the temptations to anger, as well as that 
of Phaedria or immodest mirth. In the seventh canto, the most 
powerful in the book, the famous description of the Cave of ^ 
Mammon, he is again successful in withstanding the temptations 
of wealth, and of ambition personified in Philotime, daughter 
of Mammon; yet these temptations assail him with so much 
force that he is well-nigh overcome, and falls into a swoon when 

^ ' The Faerie Queeae,' I, iv, 31. 

1 



/^, 



^ 



HERBERT EVELETH GREENE, 



they have been succesfuUy resisted. Indeed he is powerless 
before the fresh assaults of Pyrochles and Cymochles, were it 
not for the opportune aid of Prince Arthur or Magnanimity. 
The ninth canto contains the only continued allegory in the 
book, that of the House of Temperance ; and of all Spenser's 

' allegories it is the most arbitrary and artificial. The human 
body is-allegorized in the same way that Fletcher and 
QuARLES, — and we must add Bunyan, — have treated it. Alma 
is the mind, who is a wise ruler over her house; her castle is 
the human body, for each member of which some analogy is 
found. A comparison with ' The Purple Island ' will show 
t hat, excep t in the point of versification, there is little to choose 
between the two. The long roll of worthies in the tenth canto 
may perhaps serve to Sir Guyon as examples of noble deeds to 
be emulated. Finally the castle of Alma is besieged by twelve 
y troops which represent the seven deadly sins and the tempta- 
tions that assail the five senses ; under their captain Maleger, 
sick of evil, attended by the two hags. Impotence and Impa- 
tience, they are overcome by Prince Arthur. Meantime Sir 

/Guyon is in search of the Bower of Bliss wherein dwells Acrasia, 
the personification of Intemperance; without hesitating, he 
surprises her and binds her in chains of adamant. 

y It will be noticed how small a part of the book is allegorical ; 

^very little is suppressed. Aside bom those characters connected 
with the House of Alma, the only allegorical character is that 
of the black palmer, who represents reason or the prudence 
that advises self-control. Nearly all the allegorical action of the 
book is that in which he takes part Thus, when Sir Guyon 
goes alone with Phaedria (Immodest Mirth) in her boat, while 
the Palmer is left on the strand, it is clearly taught that when 
Self-control gives itself up to Idleness under the guidance of 
Immodest Mirth, Reason is left behind. Another instance of 
genuine allegory is the fiend that followed Sir Guyon while in 
the Cave of Mammon ; also Sir Guyon's swoon when he came 
out of the cave. For the most part, however. Sir Guyon is a 
type ; Amavia and Mordant are types ; Braggadocio and Trom- 
part, if they represent the Duke of Anjou and Simier, are his- 
torical allegory, otherwise they are personifications. Belphoebe, 

^ who represents Queen Elizabeth, is historical allegory. All the 

other characters are personifications and nothing more ; that is 

to say, they do not partake in any allegorical action, but show 

^ forth their nature by consistent action. A comparison, side by 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, '^ND SWIFT, 185 

side, of the amount of jpersonification and of allegory will show 
a strikingly large proportion of personification. Allegorical 
characters ; the palmer, Alma, perhaps the babe Ruddymane : 
historical allegory ; Bdphoebe, Braggadochio, Trompart : WXr^ 
sonifications ; Medina, Perissa, Elissa, Braggadochio, Trompart, 
Furor, Occasion, Atin, Cymochles, Pyrochles, Phaedria, Mam- 
mon, Philotime, Maleger, Impotence, Impatience, Acrasia. Th^ 
attendants in the Cave of Mammon, namely Avarice, Revenge, 
Despight, Treason, Hate, Gealosy, Feare, Sorrow, Shame, Hor- 
ror, Richesse, Care, Force, Fraud, Sleepe, Disdain, ought not, 
perhaps, to be counted to swell the number ; without regard to 
them, it is sufficiently clear that the action of the book is carried 
on by continued personifications, acting in accordance with their < 
natural characters. Of hidden meaning, very little can be found.N 
I have made similar comparisons for each of the six books, and 
the results, though differing somewhat in proportion, confirny 
the result arrived at above. 

In the third book there is even less of allegory. Britomart> 
Belphoebe, Amoret, Florimel, are types of chastity; while 
Malecasta, the false Florimel, Hellenore, Argante, are types of 
unchastity. I cannot discover any meaning for Scudamour, 
unless it be constancy in love. The aged Glauce corresponds 
to Una in Book I, find to the black palmer in Book II. Sir 
Satyrane, Marinell, Timias, Belphoebe, and Paridell, are allegori- 
cal only in an historical sense. Indeed the whole book is an 
expansion of the last canto of Book II, except that Britomart is 
not really tempted, while Sir Guyon meets temptation and comes 
off conqueror. The fourth book, the first of the second instal- 
ment, is one of the most confusing. No new adventure is under- 
taken, but many new characters come upon the scene and 
weave themselves into inextricable confusion. They are all 
types of friendship, true or fitlse, '' of enmitie that of no ill pro- 
ceeds," as in the cases of Cambell and Triamond, and of '* friend- 
ship without regard of good," as in the cases of Blandamour 
and Paridell. Several of the characters are allegorical, but only 
historically so; such are Blandamour, Paridell, Timias, Bel- 
phoebe. In Book V, the moral allegory is confined to Talus, 
the man with the iron flail ; he represents the executive power 
which accompanies Justice, ''for Power is the right hand of 
Justice truly hight." The last third of the book is full of his- 
torical allegory, setting forth the Spanish war in the Netherlands, 
the suppression of the Irish rebellion of 1580, and the con- 



1 86 HERBER T E VELE TH GREENE, 

demnation of Mary, Queen of Scots. Few of the leading char- 
acters are personifications ; rather they are historical characters, 
veiled under new names. Book VI is likewise free from any 
hidden meaning^ except that which is historical. It narrates the 
story of Sir Philip Sidney's marriage with Frances Walsingham, 
the episode of Sir Walter Raleigh and Elizabeth Throckmorton, 
and sings the praises of Spenser's wife, Elizabeth. Not greatly 
to his credit, Spenser takes the opportunity to treat with con- 
tumely the Rosalind to whose hard heart he had years before 
laid unsuccessful siege. The lesson of Courtesy is taught in 
the concrete example of Sir Calidore, who represents Sir Philip 
>^^Sidney. 

The two cantos of Mutability, which contain some of Spen- 
ser's finest poetry, are full of masterly personification, but con- 
tain no allegory. Of Spenser's minor poems ' Mother Hub- 
berds Tale ' and * Colin Clouts Come Home Againe ' are exam- 
ples of historical allegory of the most interesting kind ; words 
to the wise, they disclose "at half-lights" what Spenser did 
not venture or choose to utter openly. Nowhere has he made 
more fitting use of this kind of allegory. * The Ruines of Time ' 
offer a series of riddles, which are to be interpreted historically- 
In * The Shepheards Calender ' the allegory is chiefly historical, 
and is of varying degrees of interest. ' Muiopotmos,' of which 
Christopher North says rightly that " outside of the magic 
circle of the Faerie Queene there is nothing so beautiful in 
Spenser," belongs to the higher kind of allegory, and it is to 
be interpreted spiritually. 

^ De Quincey's remark concerning the difficulty that arises 
when allegorical characters are brought into situations that are 
not allegorical,^ is especially applicable to Spenser's allegory ; 
it was impossible to move his numerous characters without con- 
\stantly bringing them into situations not allegorical. And so, 
consciously or unconsciously, Spenser has exemplified nearly 
all his virtues in the first two books, within which limit indeed 
there was space enough. As Kitchin has remarked, the alle- 
gory of the Red Cross Knight is spiritual,that of Sir Guyon is 
moral ; in the two books is portrayed in full the character of a 
Christian gentleman. Holiness and Truth are met together in 
the first book; the golden mean of Temperance is an all- 
embracing virtue. What more is needed ? Is it chastity ? Sir 
Guyon has successfully withstood temptation, and Britomart 

66 See p, Z55. 



ALLEGORY IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT. 187 

does no more ? Is it courtesy ? This has been already pre- 
sented in the person of Sir Guyon and in Prince Arthur's gentie 
treatment of the exasperating Ignaro : 

** His reuerend haires and holy grauitee 

The knight much honourd, as befeemed well, 
And gently afkt, where all the people bee, 
Which in that ftately building wont to dwell. 
Who answerd him full foft, he could not tell. 

• ••••••••** 

Then afked he, which way he in might pas : 
He could not tell, againe he anfwered. 
Thereat the curteous knight difpleased was. 

Whofe fenceleffe fpeach, and doted ignorance 
When as the noble Prince had marked well, 
He ghest his nature by his countenance, 
And calmd his wrath with goodly temperance. "*7 

Sir Satyrane also is an example of that 

** honest-offered courtesy, 
Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds. 
With smoky rafters, than in tapestry halls 
And courts of princes, where it first was named.** 

In a greater or less degree, friendship is exemplified in the 
Red Cross Knight, Sir Guyon, and Prince Arthur. The neces^ 
sity of bringing his characters into situations not allegorical 
caused Spenser to abandon his original design, and to make 
his heroes not mere embodiments of one particular virtue, but 
human beings possessing several virtues and withal some share 
of human failings. Despite some apparent inconsistencies and 
defects the first book of ' The Faerie Queene ' is a continued 
allegory of singular beauty and subtlety. Whether it is true or 
not that Spenser had exhausted his vein of allegory, it is cer- 
tain that he did not undertake to construct another allegory to 
match that of the first book. Instead of so doing he contented 
himself with falling back upon the less difficult and less valuable 
form of historical allegory, and with setting forth his ethical 
teaching through concrete types of character. 

A word upon Spenser's use of symbolism. That historical 
allegory is necessarily arbitrary and affords but little opportu- 
nity for symbolism is so apparent that we need not delay to 
consider that form. It is to be noted that in Spenser's person- 
ifications there are fi'equendy traces of symbolism. Take, for 
example, the following of Hope : 

&r ' The Fatxit Queeae,' I, viii, 31, 33, 34, 



i88 HERBER T E VELETH GREENE. 

" Her younger fifter, that Speranza hight» 
Was clad in blew, that her befeemed well ; 
Not all fo chearefull Teemed fhe of fight. 
As was her filler ; whethei' dread did dwell, 
Or anguif h in her heart, is hard to tell : 
Vpon her arme a Hluer anchor lay. 
Whereon fhe leaned euer, as befell : 
And euer vp to heauen, as fhe did pray, 
Her ftedfaft eyes were bent, nc fwarued other way.**** 

RusKiN criticises the use of an anchor as a symbol of hope,^ 
and prefers the following personification from the Masque of 
Cupid : 

" With him went Hope in rancke, a handfome Mayd, 
Of chearefull looke and louely to behold ; 
In filken famite fhe was light arayd, 
And her faire lockes were wouen vp in gold ; 
She alway fmyld, and in her hand did hold 
An holy water Sprinckle, dipt in deowe. 
With which fhe fprinckled fauours manifold, 
On whom fhe lift, and did great liking sheowe. 
Great liking vnto many, but true loue to feowe.'*7o 

Spenser probably had in mind Hebrews VI, 19 ; and the 
second personification is not assured hope, like the first, but 
fidlacious hope, as Ruskin is carefiil to remark. If Lessing's 
distinction between poetical and allegorical attributes is a true 
one,7> than the second personfication is preferable to the first, 
not for the reason that Ruskin assigns, but because it has less 
of symbolism. The other characters in the Masque of Cupid, — 
Desyre, Doubt, Daunger, Feare, Dissemblaunce, Suspect, Grief, 
Fury, Displesure, and Pleasaunce, — ^all have symbolic attributes ; 
inasmuch as they take part in a masque, and not in continued 
action, they are not unlike statues and may rightfully have the 
same emblems. The case is different with continued personifi- 
cations such as Perissa, Furor, and Sansjoy; they become 
allegorical, if at all, not by symbols, but by symbolic action* 
^ The thought constantly in Spenser's mind and presented 
symbolically throughout the allegory b that life is a battle ; and 
that so fitr from seeking to avoid its difficulties, they should be 
sought out in a knightly spirit and manfully overcome. In 

\ addition to the leading symbol which is everywhere to be met 
with, are numerous symbols briefly suggested to the mind and 

' never mentioned again. Such are the " lowly Asse more white 
then snow" on which Una rode, and the milk-white lamb 

68* The Fmerit Queeoe/ I, x, 14. 69* Stones of Venice,' Vol. II, p. 34Z. 70 *Th« 
Fkerie Queeae/ III, xil, 13. 71 See Note A, vP* i9»-i9). 



ALLEGOR YIN SPENSER, BUN VAN, AND SWIFT. 189 

which she led by her side. Of this lamb, introduced purely for 
its symbolic meaning, no further mention is made ; and in truth 
it would have been an inconvenient companion, in its. literal 
sense, to Una in all her journeying. Sir Satyrane and the troop 
of Fauns and Satyrs among whom Una stayed long time, are 
examples of continued allegory that is symbolic. The dwarf 
who followed Una and bore "her bag of needments at his 
backe," is an instance of arbitrary allegory. In general, how- ^ 
ever, the allegory of the first book is truly symbolic. ^ 

IV. 

Lest there may be quoted against me the couplet from 
* Hudibras,' 

** For all a rhetorician's rules 
Teach nothing but to name his tools,'* 

with the addition that I have not even named with precision the 
tools that I have been using, I will recapitulate what I have 
endeavored to prove. 

The distinction between allegory, metaphor, and personifica- 
tion is to be determined by other considerations than those of 
brevity or length. The metaphor is partly literal, partly figura- 
tive; the allegory is figurative throughout. Personification is 

^ definite ; allegory is indefinite. Pe rsonification aims at vivid 
identification; metaphor aims at enlightening the eyes of our 
understanding ; allegory aims at suggestive concealment. Per- 
sonification addresses itself to the understanding ; metaphor to 
both understanding and imagination ; allegory to the imagina- 

vtion. Hence it follows that continued metaphor, and much 
more continued personification cannot be allegory, since they 
are different in nature and in aim. In true allegory there are 
always two meanings; one expressed, the other suppressed. 
The reader is to guess the riddle. The highest kind of allegory, 
the only kind that can be more than entertaining, is that which 
has a moral or spiritual significance, since it has to do with the 
things which are real, that is, which are immutable and eternal. 
Since such allegory is valuable, it is a grievous misfortune, nay 
more, a serious failure on the part of the poet, if the lesson that 
he has striven to teach is not discovered by the faithful reader. 
Nothing will conduce so much to that clearness which is indis- 
pensable in an allegory that is to avoid failure, as an appropriate 
and ennobling symbolism upon which the work is to be based, — 
the symbol being the part which will make the strongest impres- 
sion and that longest to be remembered by the reader. Svokce 



IQO 



HERBERT EVELETH GREENE. 



the allegory lies midway between the narrative and the didactic 
poem, the writer of allegory needs both constructive and imagi- 
\ native power in order to be assured of complete success. 

In the writings of the three men whose works I have exam- 
ined with most care may be found examples of nearly every 
kind of allegory. It may almost be said that for each of them 
the allegory was the only natural form of expression. With the 
exception of his spiritual autobiography nothing of Bun van's 
is now read except his allegories. Nearly all of Swift's best 
work is in the form of allegory ; all of his long works are writ- 
ten in that form, and only a few fragments are read beside. 
Spenser seemed to be unable to write anything that was not 
>^ allegory in its aim; not only 'The Faerie Queene/ but also 
• Muiopotmos/ * The Shepheards Calender/ * Mother Hubberds 
Tale/ 'Colin Clouts Come Home Againe/ 'The Ruines of 
Time.' He could not even translate Vergil's * Gnat' without 
giving it an allegorical significance probably never known save 
to a few. All his best work, except the * Epithalamion/ is in 
this form ; when we observe the work of contemporary poets 
we need some other explanation of this fact than that allegory 
was the literary fashion. Commenting upon ' Mother Hubberds 
Tale/ Mr. Palgrave says, *' Even here Spenser seems unable 
to present real life except in the guise of Allegory f"^ and again, 
writing about * The Ruines of Time/ and speaking of Spen- 
ser's lack of insight into the character of Leicester and other 
of his contemporaries, he says, '* The figures in an allegory he 
characterizes with an imaginative power of vividness rarely 
rivalled; — the figures of his contemporaries in actual life he 
could not equally define."73 

BuNYAN, who wrote the most widely read and best under- 
stood of all allegories, is especially concerned that the reader 
shall consult his interpretation supplied in running marginal 
notes. Footnotes are already necessary to a complete under- 
standing of Swift's historical allegories; and without venturing 
the assertion that footnotes are &tal to an allegory, we may 
safely say that they are undesirable in a book that is to be 
enjoyed. Spenser publishes a poem in three books, twenty 
thousand lines in length; and without the explanatory letter 
which he was fortunately prompted to add, neither the plan of 
the poem nor its meaning would be intelligible. *' It is a heroic 



79 *E§s»ys oa the Minor Poemi of Spenier.' By F. T. Palgravx. In Gkosakt's 
Edidoa of Speaser, Vol. TV, p. Ixviii. 73 '^id., p, \«k\. 



ALLEGOR V IN SPENSER, BUN VAN, AND SWIFT, 191 

poem, in which the heroine, who gives her name to it, never 
appears/*74 Surely no other writer of epic poetry ever " thrust 
into the middest " in such a manner. Even with the explanation 
given by Spenser, his true meaning is often obscure, often mis- 
apprehended. It would seem that the allegory ought to be 
classed among the curiosities of literature. Our age is out of 
humor with the form, perhaps has outgrown it : men prefer to 
do their abstract thinking in abstract terms. It may be, as 
SvMONDS suggests,74 that allegory was suited to the childhood 
of the race which could not grasp abstract thoughts, unless they 
were presented in concrete form. It is certain that while there 
have been conspicuous failures and few successes in this form, 
yet it has had a fascination for many of the great masters of 
literature. To no one else has it been given to realize such 
complete success as Milton attained in his * Comus ;' as alle- 
gory, masque, or poem, it is well-nigh beyond criticism. 

In my examination of the allegories of Spenser, Bunyan, 
and Swift, I have not sought to force upon them a narrow or 
an arbitrary definition ; but I have insisted upon the true sig- ^ 
nification of the word, namely, that an allegory must contain a 
hidden meaning as well as a surface meaning. I have shown ^ 
that none of these three writers has fully conformed to this defi- 
nition, unless it be Swift, who succeeded best because he 
^ attempted least. Bunyan's success is due not so much to the 
perfection of his allegory as to the fact that it is based upon a 
symbolism that the experience of every reader has found to be 
true. Spenser's failure is caused by his lack of constructive 
power, by the intricacy and lack of unity of his narrative, and 
by the obscurity and occasional arbitrariness of his allegory ; 
he excels not in narrative or. in allegory, but in lively descrip- 
tion and in power of vivid personification. I am far from 
asserting that his ethical teaching is less valuable because he 
broke away from the allegory. The lesson of temperance is 
none the less forcible for being taught directly instead of being 
*'clowdily enwrapped." In the first book Spenser wrote a\ 
continued allegory of unusual beauty and nobility in its spiritual 
meaning, hampered, however, by the historical allegory which 
he chose to attach to it. Even in this book he was unable to 
avoid obscurity and confusion ; the amount of spiritual meaning 
grows less, and soon there is no allegory whatever, except that^ 
which is historicaL " We may fairly leave the allegory on one 

f4* SpeoMT,* p. u8. By R. W. Cmuscm. 



192 



HERBERT EVELETH GREENE. 



side/'75 for the sufficient reason that it is exactly what Spenser 
did himself after completing the first book. " The true use of 
him," — one true use, at least, — " is as a gallery of pictures, which 
we visit as the mood takes us, and where we spend an hour or 
two at a time/'T^ And what a dazzling vision does this^ 
ofpi5tui=«s afford to the eyes of the imagination, — the House oJ 
Pnde, the Cave of Despair, the Gardens of Adonis, the House 
of Holiness, the Cave of Mammon, the Bower of Bliss, the 
Temple of Venus, with the sight of Amoret and of a varied and 
never-ending procession of figures of a beauty and interest that 
fascinate the gaze and transport the reader to Faery land. As 
a romantic poem * The Faerie Queene ' has no equal. Often I 
have been led unconsciously to forget the purpose of my study, 
and to read on with no thought save of the surpassing beauty 
of description. 

There has fallen to me the ungracious task of writing of . 
Spenser's defects instead of his excellences, which are far \ 
greater and correspondingly more difficult to speak of ade- 
quately. These excellences, if I understand him righdy, lie 
not in constructive power or in variety of situation, but in ao 
unrivalled command of language, a melodious versification that 
has no superior in its rhythmic flow, great power of personifica- 
tion and likewise of description, a keen and exquisite perception 
of the beautiful, and the*deep spiritual insight of one who pon- j 
dered much upon " the things' which are not seen." | 

1 



NOTE A, p. 182. 

*' When a poet personifies abstractions he sufficiently indicates their 
character by their name and 'employment. 

These means are wanting to the artist, who must therefore give to 
his personified abstractions certain symbols by which they may be 
recognized. These symbols, because they are something else and 
mean something else, constitute them allegorical figures. 

A female figure holding a bridle in her hand, another leaning against 
a column, are allegorical beings. But in poetry Temperance and 
Constancy are not allegorical beings, but personified abstractions. 

By the use of symbols the artist exalts 

a mere figure into a being of a higher order. Should the poet employ 
the same artistic machinery he would convert a superior being into 
a doll. 

Conformity to this rule was as persistently observed by the ancients 
as its studious violation is by the viciousness of modern poets. All 

2S *ShMkMpen*» PredeccMon in the EnglUh Drama/ p. 146. 
75 Lowell's * Among my Books ;' Vo\. U, p. 177. 




ALLEGOR Y IN SPENSER, BUNYAN, AND SWIFT, 193 

their imaginary beings go masked, and the writers who have most 
skill in this masquerade generally understand least the real object of 
their work, which is to let their personages act, and by their actions 
reveal their character. 

Among the attributes by which the artist individualizes his abstrac- 
tions, there is one class, however, better adapted to the poet than 
those we have been considering, and more worthy of his use. I 
refer to such as are not strictly allegorical, but may be regarded as 
instruments which the beings bearing them would or could use, 
should they ever come to act as real persons. The bridle in the 
hand of Temperance, the pillar which supports Constancy, are purely 
allegorical and cannot therefore be used by the poet. The scales in 
the hand of Justice are less so, because the right use of the scales is 
one of the duties of Justice. The lyre or flute in the hand of a muse, 
the lance in the hand of Mars, hammer and tongs in the hands of 
Vulcan, are not symbols at all, but simply instruments without which 
none of the actions characteristic of these beings could be performed. 
To this class belong the attributes sometimes woven by the old poets 
into their descriptions, and which, in distinction from those that are 
allegorical, I would call the poetical. These signify the thing itself, 
while the others denote only something similar.*' Lessing's 
* Laocoon,* Section x. Translated by Ellen Frothingham. 

NOTE B. 

Since this paper was read at Cincinnati a member of the Association 
has kindly called my attention to an interesting discussion of the 
allegory in * Die Sprache als Kunst * by Gustav Gerber. This 
writer makes the same distinction as Brinkmann ; namely, that the 
allegory is figurative throughout ; but he does not state it so clearly, 
and he does not adhere to it closely enough. Some of his examples 
(for example. Vol. ii, pp. 102, 103) are merely personifications without 
any hidden meaning. He notes the infrequency of pure allegory 
(Vol. ii, p. 106), and is, therefore, willing to admit what he calls 
mixed allegory, which is interpreted in part by the context ; this 
seems to be a near approach to the boundary-line of metaphor. 
Gerber is, perhaps, over-ready to make classifications into which to 
force his examples, but his book is most interesting and suggestive. 

As regards the obscurity of the allegory Gerber says: "Fabel 
und Parabel sprechen, die Allegorie ist stumm ; und wer also ihr Bild 
seiches nicht erkennt, es fiir das eigentlich Darzustellende halt, wiirde 
von ihr aus eines Besseren nicht belehrt werden ** (Vol. ii, 2, p. 257). 
Again ; •* Wir habcn allerdings allegorische Dichtungen. Auch kann 

viel Sinnigcs und Feines in diese Schattenwelt verden ; abcr 

alles Dies giebt doch mehr fur Commentatoren eine Beschaftigung, 
als fiir Menschen einen Genuss *' (Vol. ii 2. p. 259, note). His objec- 
tion to allegorical poetry differs from those brought forward in this 
paper : I have not space to give it even in sumhiary. 

Gerber also shows (Vol. ii, p. 100) that irony is not allegory, 
because it uses literal language, not figurative ; and that where irouv 
does make use of figurative language, \l \s ivoX Y)tc2L>3is^ cA v\Ocv >aa«. 
that it is irony. This is a point thai 1 had noX su^ca^tvxVj coTvs^Afcx^^. 
Seep. 164, 



IV. — The Stressed Vowe/s of yElfrtc's Homilies^ VoL L 
Bv FRANK FISCHER, A. B., 

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA. 

Our knowledge of the phonology of Old English, and more 
especially of Old English vowels, is as yet comparatively lim- 
ited. Nor can this afford much occasion for surprise, when we 
consider how short a time has elapsed since the initial steps were 
taken in what could jusdy be considered a scientific treatment of 
the subject. The phonology of Old English therefore offers a 
broad field for investigation, and it has been the purpose of the 
author of this monograph to cover some portion, however small, 
of the unexplored territory. 

The first volume of Thorpe's edition of 'iElfric's Homilies ' 
has furnished the material for this investigation, iElfric being 
chosen as typical of the Late West Saxon, and the first volume 
of his homilies as sufficiendy comprehensive to include the 
greater portion of his vocabulary. As regards the form in 
which I have presented the work, the only explanation that need 
be given is that the words have been alphabetically classified 
according to their stressed vowels, as these appear in Old 
English. This system seems preferable to any other in that 
it leaves no room for ambiguity, while at the same time it 
presents the lists in a shape that requires no subsequent index- 
ing for purposes of reference. 

Though I have everywhere sought to arrive at some defi- 
nite conclusion as to the West Germanic originals, I have, when- 
ever I felt that there was room for reasonable doubt, preferred 
to query my judgment rather than lay it open to the charge of 
arbitrariness. The letters p and ?, both employed in the text 
without apparent discrimination, I have uniformly merged 
under t5* Moreover, in the citation of words that are subject to 
inflection, I have, as a rule, entered the typical or dictionary 
form, unless there was some particular reason for presenting the 
word exacdy as it occured in the text. To illustrate the latter 
case, the plural mdgas is left unchanged, and is not reduced to 
the nominative singular, for the reason that the plural has a 
different stressed^ vowel. 

Of the authorities that have been consulted those that have 
proved of the greatest assistance are Sievers' ' Grammar of 



STRESSED VOWELS OF CLERICS HOMILIES. 195 

Old English ' (second edition), translated and edited by Profes- 
sor Albert S. Cook, and Cosijn's *Altwestsachsische Gram- 
matik.' Kluge*s * Etymologisches Worterbuch der deutschen 
Sprache ' and Grein's * Sprachschatz der angelsachsischen 
Dichter * have also been found exceedingly useful. The stand- 
ard lexicons and other similar authorities have been employed 
for occasional reference, but of these no particular mention will 
be expected. 

THE VOWEL a. 

1. WG.tf, WS. a: — ac2.8; assa 30.13; axe 246.19; batian 250.18; 
blacc 482.20; blace334. 12; brastlian 68.5; cnapa i82.i2;cwacian 132.27; 
-dafenlic 14.17 ; -dafenian 36.14 ; dagas 4.7 ; draca 68.5 ; -fadian 414.33 ; 
faduiig 274.29 ; fagnian 88.2; faran6.4; -faren 222.16; -gaderian 20.34 ; 
gegaf 534.2; gaffetung 306.2; gladian 36.25; -grafen 424.10; habban 
350.1; hacele 48.1; hafa 400.27; -hafen 380.31 ; hafen- 128.23; hagol 
52.18; -hagian 180.12; hatian 52.34; hatung 84.12; -hradian 82.30; 
hraAe 16.9; lator 102.30; -ladling 34.6; (ge)maca 14.19; (ge)macian 

6.11; n\3ge 276.7; magon 272.29; ma^a 86.10; nacod 18.11; pa^^as — T, U)^ 
360.32; <^rendraca 26.5; racent^ag 434.8 ; racu 46.14; -sacan 144.24; /ifi HX. 
sacu 180. 1 ; -sadelian 210.30 ; sagol 424.32 ; -slacian 614.13 ; slaga 46.25 ; ^ 
-slagen 400.29 ; sparian 180.8 ; stafas 92.12 ; stapas 504.9 ; starian 296.3 ; ^ 3: 
swalewe 404.25 ; talian 114. 18; -^afian 4.30 ; wacol 36.14 ; wacian 36.6 ; 
•war 16.22; ware 240.28; wlacum 86.23; wracu 86.1. 

2. WG. a BEFORE NASALS, VVS. Q (cf. rf, 7) : — anccl^w 466.25 ; 
•ancsumian 342.11 ; and 2.1; anda 16.30; -andettan 426.4; andswaru ; 
angel 216.32 ; angsum- 86.8 ; arn (?) 478.33 ; -band 466.33 ; -bann 34.4; 
bam (?) 86.4; camp- 418.9; campian 360.16; cann 330.8; -crammian 
430.4 ;dranc 352.6 ; fandian 4. 10 ; -fangen 284.23 ; fram 2.3 ; gang 90.19 ; 
gangon 256.13; -gann2.i6; grama4.i9; (fi^er)hama 380.29 ; (Hc)hama 
16.17; -hamian 40.24; hancr^ 74*2i ; hand 10. i; hangian 382.10; 
-hangen 504.31 ; hwanon 400.23 ; lama 26.11 ; lamb 140. i ; -lamp 402.6 ; 
land 30.3; (ge)lang 252.4 ; lange 178.6; -langian 86.30 ; langsum 4.19; 
mancgere 254.25; maneg 2.9; mangian 412.6; mangung 524.12; 
manian 6.25; mann 2.12; manna 12.35; (ge)man^ 288.28; nam (?) 
290.7; nama 4.2; -namian 14.16; samnian 78.10; samod 6.13; sand 
572.8 ; sang 38.7 ; gesang 74.22 ; sangere 218.9 ; -scamel 314.32 ; -spanen 
18.8; sprang 304.29; standan 6.3; strand 64.3; Strang 10.16; (^an (but 
cf. SiEVERs-CooK, § 65, N. 2) 438.20; ^anc 12.17; ^ancian 36.19; 
9anon 418.28; wamb 66.1; wana 272.13; wand 414.18; wang 12.32; 
wanian 32.23; -wann 196.4; wannsp^ig 140.6; wanung 94.33. 

3. WG. a, WS. ea through w-umlaut: — atelic 16.21 ; batJu 86.21 ; 
carfull 60.19; carian 242.10; cwalu 54.3; dam 102.8; fam 80.3; fatu 
58.11; gafol 32.14; gatu 364.22; gatum 334.29; stalu 220.9; -stat^el- 
12.8; swa^u 68.14; -wam78.9; warn (wares) 246.2. 

4. WG. a, WS. ea through breaking : — ardlice (?) 78.19; galdor 
474.21; psalm- 322.34 ; wamian6.28. 

5. The result of the contraction of e-^-a :— nabba^ i<iS«^V 



196 FRANK FISCHER. 

6. Shortened from WS. rf, WG. az, with gemination of the 

FOLLOWING CONSONANT :—attOr 72.12. 

7. Foreign ; — abbud 336.7 ; ancer- 544.26 ; ancran 564.7 ; apostol 
60.11; arc 20.31; Arabisc 478.24; aspide 486.35; Chaldeisc 570.10; 
-cradol 82.29 1 ^ant 422.17 ;• Franc- 560.7 ; Francan 560.4 ; manna 76. 16 ; 
marman- 506.11 ; marmstdn 560.32 ; martyr 44.23; palm- 90.2 ; papol- 
64.3 ; plantian 132.7 ; traht 104.4. 

THE VOWEL 4. 

1. WG. at, WS. 4:— 328.19; 33294.9; adl86.3; adiian 86.22; adlig 
4.21; agen 10.19; a(bwdr) 54.25; an 8.19; ar 60.28; arl^asnys 6.25; 
arian6.5; 3^480.32; at^um 478.26; axi3n 14.22; -b3d 226.12; bsn 
14.23; b3t 458.14; bl3ci3n 314.12; bl3cung 72.27; bl3wan 312.12; 
-blawen- 86.13; br3d 132.24; cafer- 422.26; caflice (?) 464.18; cl3? 
30.12; cn3W3n 18,4; -cn3wen 358.1; tod3l 48.35 ; drsf 374.9; -draf 
502.10; •dw3n 452.15; f3cn 62.31; fag- 122.22; fagett3n (?) 608.33; 
fl3t 290.3; g3l 360.2; g3n(?) 14.19; gsrsecg 45412; gast 10.9; gl3d 
78-23 ; gr3nung 68.7; gr3pi3n 220.17 \ ^^d 2.2; h3di3n 44.8; h3l 4.22 ; 
h3lsi3n8.io; hsm 80.11; hsr- 376.13; h3t 58.27 ; beh3l 74.20; hstan 
14.8; -h3ten 346.15; h3wi3n 332.15; hiaf 34.15; hlaford 8.23; -hnsh 
420.17 ; hw3m 362.25 ; I3 (Cosijn, § 86) 220.5 ; ^3l3 (Cosijn, § 86) 40.6 ; 
l3c 22.33; ]3dung 270.1; l3f 12.5; bel3f 344.14; l3m 12.29; Isr 2.8; 
l3tt^w 34.12; l3^ic 10.31; ma 88.28; -m3glice 158.13; (ge)mana 
24.25; m3n- 4.13; -m3nsumi3n 124.29; msnsumung 370.10; m3ra 
10.3; m39m 318.14; (ge)r3d 208.19; r3p 208.4; r3ri3n (?) 66.18; -r3S 
314.28; S3pe 472.6; sar 42.10; -ssrgisn 158.8; S3rig 566.10; S3rlice 
428.12; s3W3n 388.22; -S3wen 438.1; S3wo] 6.29; -sn3^ 98.10; sn3w 
222.31; sp3tl 474.9; -sp3W 246.14; stah 244.28; Stan 22.29; -swac 
244.20 ; sw3tig 426.31 ; t3 (=lot) *246.5 ; t3con 4.3 ; tsn 246.3 ; tw3m 
346.16; ^3 2.11 ; tfzTCi 2.11 ; (^r3fi3n 296.24; ^rsfung 294.15; -3^r3wen 
502.17; W3 102.10; W3C2.I; wsnung 466.33 ; W3st 488.26; W3t 268.16;' 
(ge)w3t 316.29 ; -wlatung 348.7 ; -wrat 308.33 ; -wra? 462.13. 

2. WG. 4, USUAL WS. d\ — claw3 424.19; -hw3r 74.32; -Ucnian 
124.14; lagon 456.2; mag3 74.10; m3g3S 332.31 ; m3ge 202.9; n3mon 
(WS. ndmon) 316.23; -sdwon 296.3; slspon 490.1; t3l 338.19; tslUc 
44.27 ; t3lu 306.2. 

3. WG. d : — ^tw3 26.5 ; dsLS (fem. 3cc. sing.) 2.6 ; d&s (nom. pi.) 344*22. 

4. The contraction of d (WG. at) + vowel: — aht 268.12; -fa 
226.28; fl3 502.17; flsn 62.28; na^or 18.7. 

5. The contraction of ^ -|- 4 : — ^na 4.18; naht 268.13; ^^^ 8*9; 
nast 378.7 ; nat 378.5. 

6. Lengthened from a, with ecthlipsis a) of dd: — ^wag 106.14, 
wah 288.4 (Goth, waddjus). b) of ^:— fran 298.10. c) of j?:— gad 
386.9. 

7. The result of secondary lengthening of WS. a, WG. a : — 
anda 26.21 ; anweald 342.28 ; andian 346.32 ; -am 332.28 ; -band 352.31 ; 
•bann 30.1 ; -camp 64.19 ; dranc 168.12 ; fandi3n 168.5 ; -fandode 544.6 ; 
fandung 532.30; -fangen 492.31 ; faran 268.14; gang 26. ii; -gangan 
J4.7; -gann 258.9; -hafen 512.34 ; handf 516.7; handa 496.10; hnappode 

K^oafuMcd with t4^to€. 



STRESSED VOWELS OF jELFRICS HOMILIES. 



197 



86.18; -hradian 618.25 ; hwa 48.23; gehvva 166.27 ; hwan 182.13; lamb 
312.17; -lamp 244.15; land 78.34 ; lang 374.11 ; -langian 450.31 ; mania/T 
600.27; manigenfle 600.31 ; sand 194.17; -sang 28.9; -sprang 384.26; 
-stang 452.31 ; Strang 240.8 ; -stranga? 188.9; swa 4.32 ; swang 392.1 ; 
-^anc 262.30; wamb 604.28; wand 336.17; -wand 342.5 ; wannsp^dig 
66.11. 

8. Foreign: — casere3o.i; papa 220.27; sacerd 120.17; sam- (WS. 
s^n-) 506.2. 

THE VOWEL a, 

1. WG. a, WS. ^: — aecer 184.31 ; after- 2.3; selmes- 54.12; aelmesse 
162.30; 2eppeI88.9; aet 6.10; -aet 18.9; baec 212.5; baed 330.28; baer 
320.16; -bserst 374. 10 ; bae^ 58.27; -braec 376.30; cseppa 336.12; craeft 
4.25; craet 308.11; cwae^ 258.15; daeg 2.3 ; faec 68.20; faeger- 10.16; 
faegnian 60.9 ; faegnung 352.29 ; -faer 28.13 1 ^sest 114.1 ; -faet 96.25 ; fae^m 
20.32 ; -fraetwian 210.32; gaers 450.4; glaed 72.27; glaes 510.1; graeft 
464.27; -haefd 406.6; haefde 10.23; (for)haefednys 1 18.31 ; haeftling 
108.21; haeteru 330.14; braedlice 20.21; hraegl 472.6; hwaene (but cf. 
SiEVERS-CooK. § 65, N. 2) 434.28 ; hwaes 474.3 ; hwaet 284.6 ; -hwae^ere 
16.18 ; laeg 246.2 ; maeg 4.7 ; maegen- 128.15; maeg^ 24.6 ; naeced- 392.8 ; 
-naeglian 82.25 ; -saepig 102.24 ; saet 290.20 ; scraer4o6.i4 ; spraec 294.16 ; 
swaec 138.27; taegl 252.5; -taer 374.8; taettece 256.9; ^ses 324.14; 
un^Txslic 482.9; ^aet 2.1 1; -3rraec 68.6; waefer- 60.25; wael- 6.16; 
-waerscipe 68.4 ; waes 284.25; waestm 14.10; waeter 16.6; -wraec 526.3; 
wraec(sf<^) 58.29.* 

2. WG. a, WS. ^(through umlaut) : — ael- 250.20 ; aetJele (Sievers- 
CooK, § 50, N. 2) 52.13; baecst 488.25 ; -laeman (Sievers-Cook, § 50, 
N. 2) 6.12 ; -daeftan 212.34; -dwaescan (CosijN, § 12) 46.20; faeder (dat.) 
10.10; faereld (Cosijn, § 12) 40.5; faer^ 268.25; faestan (Cosijn, § 12) 
180.10; faesten 70.8 ; faetels {d ?) 212. i ; -gaedere (Sievers-Cook, § 50, 
N. 2) 22.3; haebbe 388.15; haebbende 550.6; haebbenne 550.4 ; haefen 
580.22; haefst 426.11 ; haef<J 396.2; haerfest (Sievers-Cook, § 50, N. 2) 
98.23; maege (? Cosijn, § 12) 272.10; maenig 342.9; -maest 522.7; ^ »a- 
-plaettan 474.13; -raefniende 30.35; -saec^r 236.2; -scae^r^g 88.13; 
-staepe84.7; staeppan 118.32; waecce 178.33. 

3. The representative of WS. ^, WG. ir:— swaeflen 466.26. 

4. The contraction of ^ -f <? :— baeftan ; naebbe 582.15; naefde 
394.16 ; naef^ 398.29 ; naes 320.15. 

5. Shortened from WS. d^ with gemination of the follow- 
ing consonant: — aeddre (WG. d) 562.6; -aettred (WG. ai) 492.29; 
aettren (WG. at) 252.5; aettres (WG. ai) 474.16; naeddre (WG. 4) 
16.32. 

6. Foreign: — maesse- 2.1; -maessian 430.29; paell 508.16; paellen 
64.13; saeter- (Cf. Sievers-Cook, § 50, N. 2) 216.27. 

THE VOWEL d, 

I. The /-umlaut of WS. 4, WG. a/ :— ae 24.16 ; aefre 8.20; aeghwA 
116.13; aeg^er 18.4; aeht 54.2;-aelan 118.8; aelc 4.29; aelic 188.20; 

*Between this a and a following g, an inorganic f is sometime! developed : d^ng^ 



198 FRANK FISCHER, 

sene 232.10; aenig 10.35 1 aer 4.11 ; aeren 376.3 ; aew 42,1 ; baenen 532.6 ; 
blaec- 456.16; blaed 322.13; -braedan 508.34; caeg 364.23; -claeman 
20.33; claene58.i9; -claensian 6.1 ; -cnaewst 140.29; dael 10.25; daelan 
62.3; -draefan 12,3; faeh^ 226.23; faemne 14.24; (aetnys 522.33; faett 
614.19; flaesc 14.24; -gaegan 604.20; gaelsa 544.28; gae^ 66.12; hsel 
410.17; haelan 4.20; haemed (Cosijn, § 88) 148.22 ;haes 26.10; haet 
266.34; haetan 86.4; haetu 282.11; hse^en 46.19; hoe^ung 286.3; 
hlaennys (? Cosijn, § 88 ; but cf. OLG. Uhni Stratmann s. v. Ickne) 
522. 31; -hwaede (?) 84.21 ; hwaete 526.28; -laeccan 162.4 (laehte 28.7); 
(6) laecung 488.9 ; laedan 560.26; laefan 478.12; laemen 554.33; -laenan 
274.2 ; laeran 6.21 ; -laes 8. 11 ; laesew (?) 242.15 ; laessa 140.6; -laest 506. 
12; -laestan 264.2; laeswian (?) 242.18; Uewed 94.34; maenan 186.5; 
(ge)maene 64.32 ; maest 250.27 ; -paecan (?) 4.4 ; -paeran 216.9; -raecan 
88.9; -raeran 16.18; sae 14.28; -saegednys 358.18; -saewiT 492.14; 
-scaet 128.2; -spraedan 536.18; staenan 46.35 ; stjenen 364.21 ; swaetan 
414.12; taecan 6.21; -twaeman 38.35; ^aera (gen. pi.) 342,31; ^aere 
(gen. sing, fern.) 342.35 ; ^aere (dat. sing, fem.) 346.25 ; -waecan 408.21 ; 
•waefan 34.28; waefels 62.29; -waegan 112.6; -waehte 488.35.* 

2. Germ ^, WG. rf, WS. d : — ^aefen 100.6; aefnung 452.4; aemtig 204.11 ; 
a&rend-26.5; aes216.11; aet 66.9; ae^m 616.24; baedon 434.26; baer 
372.6; -braecon 450.14; brae^r 222.4; cwaedon 322.18; -cwaelc 58.30; 
-dwaes 100.30; faerlic 30.22; graedelice 66.10; graedig 572.18; haer 236.22; 
haere 246.19; -hwaer 2.5; laetan 20.18; maeg 318.7; maeglic 58.4; 
raed 10.27 ; geraede 210.15; -raednys 368.13; sael 62.24; -saete 484.15; 
sa&ton 412.2; sleep (but cf. Cosijn, p. 82, 1. 3)60.19; spraec 2.7 ;spraecon 
314.18; -staele 220.8 ; swaer(?) 54.33; (ge)swaes 70.34 ; swaesnys 492.29; 
-taeron 524.29; -traedon 544.28; ^aer 12.5; waedla 62.21; waedlian 
'62.28 : waeron 286.6 ; waet 64.9.! 

3. Lat. a, WG. 4, WS. <^:— straet 60.21. 

4. The i- umlaut of WS. d, WG. d: — braedan 430.16; daed 4.13; 
-draedan 56.23; -faeran 106.30 ; laece 60.34; -laewan 26.25; nia;g^ 24.16; 
-m^inan 560. 24, maere 12.19 ; ormaete 6.2 ; mae^ 140.30; rdesan 376.34; 
saed 98.2 ; -saelig 422.3 ; -saelA 20.2 ; -staelan 612.24 ; taelan 48.23 ; -taele 
Ii2.i9(ae])taewe 250.20; -^waer(l/^can) 70.34; -ge^waernys 38.14 ; waed 
428.5; (ge)waede 398.31 ; waepmann 148.14; -wsepnian 72.23.} 

5. The i-UMLAUT of WS. d, WG. d before a nasal : — naeman 
216.17. 

6. The representative of WS. /, «-umlaut of WG. d: — fraecednys 
240.34; -swaeled 86.5. 

7. Thex-umlautof WG. a before *ddj\ (cf. Kluge, s. v. £i): — 

«g 300-5** 

8. The contraction of e-{-d: — naefre 4.1; naere 432.3; naeron 

404.22. 

9. Lengthened from WS. ^, WG. a, with ecthupsis of ^: — 
-braed 122.31 ; maeden 24.30 ; -saed 30.33 ; saedon 30.35. 

*An inorganic t is sometimes developed between this a and the foHowing consonant : 
ca(f 368.35 ; £r^'ff 9a.a. 

fAn inorganic t is sometimes developed between this a and the following consonant : 
munif/tc 404,1. 
tAa Jnorgaaic t appears in mmff 368.9. **Aa lnorfpA\« i \& fofon^Vu «tg %«^,vl« 



STRESSED VOWELS OF jELFRICS HOMILIES, 



199 



10. Due to secondary lengthening of WS. ^,WG. a :— -baernan 
372.29; -braec 186.27 ; -daeg 56.30; dag- 480.32; -faerran 102.24; fact 
510. 1 ; gaers 182.15; haefen 582.29; hwael 246.12; -maestan 522.26; 
sxt 182.2. 

THE VOWEL €, 

1. WG. e, WS. e: — be 8.11; (ge)bed 44.17; -belh 96.6; bera 24.4; 
beran 10.22; -brecan 14.13; -cweden 244.16; cwelan 72.15; cwest 
378.9; cwelan 72.15; (ge)delf 562.14; -gedelf 560.32; delfan 74.24; 
-etan 14.2 ; -efenlaecan 44.1 ; efne 30,18 ; emn 30.16 ; euen 32.6 ; fela 4.3 ; 
feld 6.12; fell 18.19; -freten 616.24; helm 162.14; helpan 180.11; 
-hwega 348.32 ; leger- 472.25 ; medemian 32.7; melda 46.24; (hil)meta 
388.2; -meten 614.28; Metod 598.35; ne 2.1 1; nest 160.34; plega 
66.12; plegian 480.30; seld- 106.27; .setl 48.29; (ge)sewenlice 4.16; 
smedma 188.7; bismer 226.28; (god)spellic 2.12; -spendan 254.21; 
spere 146.12; -spreca 90.17; sprecan 66.15; stemn 6.32; -swefian 14.20 
swefn 78.32; -swelgan 534.16; -swelle 22.22; sweltan 14.13; teld- 
392.21 ; -tredan 188.25; 3^egen 2.5; ^es 310.23; -weder 526.31 ; -wefen 
352.5; weg 46.10; -wegan 8.25; wel 4.33; weleras 568.33; -welgian 
550.12; welig 64.15; wer 14.25; wered 508.34; werod 10.21; wesan 
50.6; west 130.14; wrecan 114.4; -wrecen 332.34.* 

2. The /- UMLAUT of WS. a or g, WG. a : — (ge)b£da 92.21 ; b^d- 
126.6; b^iid 212.31 ; b^ndan 502.15 ; b^en 182.12; b^rn 526.28; b^tera 
10.32; b^trung 350.19; b^tsta 142.16; b^^ian 86.23; bl^ndan 132.12; 
-c^ned 10.8 ; c^mpa 56.30; -cw^ccan 88.10 ; cw^llan 22.9 ; d^ne 360.33 ; 
dorian 16.25 *• -dr^cced- 4.1 ; dr^hton 86.18 ; dr^c 72.11 ; dr^ncan 22.6 ; 
dw^lian 52.15 ; ^ce 418.22 ; ^cg 420.18 ; -^cged 92.34 ; ^ 8.2 ; ^e 22.17 ; 
^geslice 86.7; £gle 390.15; ^Ician 248.27; ^lles 76.19; ^nde 2.19, 
fndemes 70.26 ; -^ndian 16.17 *» £ngel 10.3 ; Englisc 2.7 ; ^t 22.31 ; ^ce- 
416.29; ^ian 464.25; and^ttan 30.9 ; fj^ccan 64.3; -f^ng 100.3: fj^rcian 
488.33; fj^ian 66.14; -frtian 248.24; -frfmedlice 10.2; framing 8.7; 
(\^^S)K€^S 72.4; g^nga 2.19; -gl^ddian 100.21 ; -gl^gan 26.19; gr^ian 
20.24; -h^bban6.32; h^e 102.33; upah^ednes 12.22; h^g-56.4; h^ll 
414; (ge)h£nde 88.23; h^igen 26.34; here 78,15; h^gung 228.17; 
hrrian 30.23; h^te- 88.10; hn^ce 602.12; hr^ddan 192.22; hr^mman 
592.7 ; hr^ppan 458.17 ; hr^pian 14. i ; hwfitime 130.21 ; hw^tan 26.31 ; 
-l^cgan 58.28; l^cten- 98.21; l^den 114.16; l^g 374.3; -l^gan 
100.21; l^tan 382.18; m^gati 40.28; m^nig 12.18; m^nigu 30.23; 
m^nn 2.17 ; m^nnisc- 26.3 ; m^regrot (?) 596.8 ; m^te 76.17 ; form^e (?) 
254.30; n^b 262.10; n^bbian 256.10; n^nan 26.6; -n^mnian 96.30; 
-n^rian 218.12; 0^394.7; pining 182.9; r^ccan 28.24 (r^hte 342.16). 
r^st 618.32 ; r^tan 104.22 ; sc^ncan 336.3 ; -sc^ndan 388.3 ; -scr^ncan 
198.22; s^cgan 14.9; s^gen 152.31; s^can 28.14; -s^cian 256.20; 
s^ndan 22.2;; (ge)s^nys 2.16 ; s^tan 12.31 ; sl^ge 26.32 ; -sl^en 488.15 ; 
sm^rcian 430.33; spr^gan 466.26; st^de 14.11; st^nc 68.7; st^can 
36.15; st^ng 428.6 ; st^t 218. 1 ; -st^test 6.24; str^c 360.1 ; str^can-358. 
26;str^ccan 252.7 ; str^nc^u 44.21 ; strfngra 250.18; str^g^ 538.20; 
-sw^ncan 86.13; sw^rian 426.6 ; get^l (?) 32.26 ; t^llan 100.13 ; -t^mian 

^Between this t and a followiag g" an inorganic / b found in weif xo8.3a. t 



200 FRANK FISCHER, 

208.20; -t^ndan 240.25; t^ngan 72.18; tr^ndel 282.9; tw^lf 26.4; 
i^^cen 126.30; ^r^ncan 12.28 ; -^^nnan 372.19 ; -w^bb 62.26; w^cg 60.29 ; 
w^dd 22.13; -w^mman 212.3; w^dan 2.14; (hdr)w^ge 376.13 ; w^rian 
568.11; wr^ccan 60.19; (lot)wr^nce 192.9.* 

3. The representative of WS. ie, the x-umlaut of ea\ — 
cw^lm- 72.11; £ltsta24.7; g^rela 296.4; g^st- 30.14; -w^l 111382.13. 

4. The representative of WS. ie, the /-umlaut of eo\ — 
ymesene (Cf. ' Phil. Soc. Eng. Diet.', s. v. bisson) 418.22. 

5. WS. £, z-UMLAUT OF WG. o: — d^iitcf 436.20; ^fstan; 162.18 
^le (from Lat. o) 58.25 ; m^rigen 100.6. 

6. The representative OF WS. eo, the ^-umlaut of WG. «: — 
tela 56.9. 

7. The representative of WS. ea, the «-umlaut of WG. a : — 
merwan 602.13. 

8. The palatal umlaut of WS. ea, the breaking of WS. a, 
WG. a : — ehta 90.12 ; -ehtatig 134.18 ; exlum 340. 2; fex 236.31 ; -fexede 
456.16; geseh 216.13 I sex 98.10; -wexen 506.23; wext 490.6. 

9. The representative of WS. y, the /-umlaut of WG. u: — 
embe 36.10; -ren 102.27. 

10. The representative of WS. ea, ti^e breaking of WG. a 
in unstressed syllables : — andwerd 82.34 ; towerd 498.27. 

11. The representative of W^S. a, WG. a : hwe^ere 10.4. 

12. The contraction of e-\-i: — nele 408.21 ; nella^ 266.26 ; nelle 
532.7 ; nelt 428.25. 

13. The result of contraction in the preterits of certain 

reduplicating verbs : feng 286.5 '» -fengon 316.2 ; -hencg 524.35 ; 

-hengon 168.9. 

14. Goth, a: — ge 18.4; se 2.19. 

15. Shortened from WS. i, /-umlaut of WG. d : — gebletsian 92.6 ; 
bletsung 44.17 ; d/^gred 508.32. 

16. Foreign: — cherubim 10.14; Ebreisc 24.11; Egyptisc 318.29; 
Leden2.i3; Perscisc 518.17 ; regol 372.31; seraphim 10.14; tempel 
70.30; tempi 168.36; getemprian 360.12. 

THE VOWEL /. 

1. Germ. /, OHG. ea^ ia\ — her 170.36; het 376.10; let 276.5; leton 
392.4; med56.5; slep 246.3. 

2. WS. ^, /-UMLAUT OF WG. d\ — bee 68.11; begen 74.6; ben 2.5; 
-beta 342.12; betan 68.17; bredan 250.24; -bregan 578*27; brembel 
18.17; bre^Jer 54.20; celing 430.13; cene 232.29; cweman 20.31; 
cwen 200.13; (ge)defe 550.20; dema 48.29; de3^ 160.10; -drefan66.4; 
e^el 78.31; fedan 24.17; -fegan 62.7; fehiys 302.15; (ge)fera 10.34; 
feran 22.25; ^^^ 212.19; Aew^ 448.2; (up)flering 296.9; frecednys 
2.18; -fredan 88.8; freferian 28.5; gled 430.4; grene 64.1; gretan 
24.24; hedan 330.31; hrefan 20.32; hwene 358.24; alefed 236.29; 
meder 308.29; metan 30.21 ; meting 186.6; (ofer)mettu 12.5; recel^as 
320.18; recels 78.28; re^e 78.30; rewut 162.10; secan 42.27; -smed'ian 
360.34; sme^nys 26.11; sped 56.15; steda 210.14; sweg 312.12; 



*An inorganic / u derdoped between this e and a following/- in st.'gy 300.33. 



STRESSED VOWELS OF jELFRICS HOMILIES, 201 

swegan 104.22 ; swete 442.2; twegen 306.35 ; twentig 298.18; wedan 
50.18; -weman 260.11 ; wen 92.30; wena 358.1; wepan 68.1; werig- 
490.7 ; westen 46.17 ; wregan 80.6. 

3. WS. i, t-UMLAUT OF 6, WHOSE LENGTH IS DUE TO THE LOSS OP 

A FOLLOWING NASAL: — ehtan 324.2; ehtnys 4.34; estfiil 34.7; fehJT 
204.15 ; fe^e (Cosijn, § 16) 336.9; gerefa (Cosijn, § 16) 72.18 ; -se^an 
336.27; se^^ung 558.16; teff 46.27. 

4. The representative of WS. i^, thei-umlaut op^a: — cepan 
56.3 ; -dreme 38.7 ; hreman 60.30 ; aleua^ 4.22 ; -nedan 18.28 ; steman 

444.11. 

5. The palatal umlaut op WS. ^a:— ch- 584.28; hexta 198.14; 
neh- 340. 8; nexta 24.21. 

6. The representative of WS. d : — breiJe 442.2 ; -cred 74.21 ; 
-dredan 30.18; emtig 440.16; hete 338.19; $61250.36. 

7. The representative op a WS ia^ which arises prom the 
influence of a preceding palatal upon WG. <f :— seep 36.15. 

8. The representative of WS. ia^ WG. au :— ela 136.28. 

9. The t-uMLAUT of WG. a: — ece (Goth, ajuk-^ Cosijn, § 12) 4.12. 

10. The contraction of ^+ ^ :-r-ten (Sibvers-Cook, § 113) 348.3. 

11. Lengthened from WS. e, with ecthlipsis of the eollow- 
ING ^: — bredan 360.14; -led 30.22; -ledc 30.13; ren 22.2; tftn 
308.20; Fenian 270.30 ; ^enig- 58.10; d'enung 58.20. 

12. The RESULT of secondary LENGTHENING OF WS. e: — bed 
262.23; bend 606.16; onet 592.17; -ferod 496.23; ge 18.3; he 4.26; 
hefe 286.12; hefig- 524.17; -hendor 106.20; hengen 542.28; -hengon 
462.11; herian44.2; -herod 356.5; herung 212.31; heninga 584.14; 
leng 534.18; me 2.6; -stent 2^.21; jTe 12.35; we 8.6; a weg 414.25; 
wel 104.23 ; -wend 128.8. 

13. Foreign: — creda 48.28; fefor 128.13; Grecisc 50.11; Medas 
454.12. 

THE VOWEL f. 

I. WG. t, WS. i; — biddan 8.9; bifian 228.13 ; bigspell 212.6; bile- 
2.10; bindan 212.14; bist 576.7; bita 182.10; biternys 306.5; gebitt 
126.20; bi9 266.4; blind 18.5; -blinnan 68.7; brice 62.9; brid 
140.15; -bringan 8.13; cild 20.17; clifian 380.25; clid'e 476.1 
dimlic 604.1; disc- 572.9; -drifen 220.17; drincan 72.14; -dwinon 
378.1 ; findan 194.14; finger 358.8; fisc i6.8(fixas, 82.13); fi^er- 380.29 
flint 92.34; -flitt 180. 1 ; frigne 18.29; gif 4.8; angin 8.19; -ginnan 
98.26 ; glida (?) 586.6 ; grindan 488.25 ; -gripen 470.5 ; -gripon 414. 11 
him 2.5 ; hindan 506.1 ; hinder 172.35 ; hine 332.31 ; his 2.5 ; hit 4.4 
-bring 474.8; hri^an 86.7; hwider 434.7; hwilc (?) 288.15 ; ic 2.1 
inc 316.33; inn 20.33; -innian 12.24; inno^ 20.18; is 2.4; -liccian 
330.22; licgan 42.26; lifigan76.4; (be)lifon 108.11 ; (for)ligere 20.23 
lim 84.18; -limpan 104.2; micel 2.10; mid 6.4; middan 4.1; mild 
36.20; milts 566.14; miltsian 18.35; miltsung 68.12; mislic 20.23 
nigon 10.14; genip 504.30; ni^er 56.32; pricu 102.29; rib 14.21 ; -rifod 
614.14; rinde 236.18; gerip 184.31; gerisan (Cosijn, p. 52) 418.8 
-risen 74.3; ri^e 444.10; scip 244.28; scrift 164.27; scripp 394.7 
sibb 30.26; side- 596.31; sige 50.4; -sigen 456.20; -sigon 414.10 



202 FRANK FISCHER. 

sigor 594.20; simle 56.19; sind 2.5; singallice 86.11; singan 30.24; 
sinscype 148.7; sittan 10.25; -sliden 492.11; -smiten 558.30; smi^ 
64.6; -sniden 90.13; -snidon 92.26; -spring 18.26; -sticce 362.28; 
stician 216.12; sticls 474>i2; sticol 162,23; -stigen 596.10; -stigon 
296.9; stihtan 112.30; stillan 26.9; stille 156.11 ; -swicen 24.24; 
swician 316.27 ; -swicon 304.30 ; -swine 8.24 ; -swindan 266.3 ; swingan 
424.12; swingle 472.12; swipe 406.7; tidder 256.2; tilian 18.15; 
tilung 474.21; -timber 2.15; -timbrung 22.25; intinga 84.2; tintreg 
94.6; twig 90.3; ^icgean 168.31; ^ider 504.6; ^igen 118.25; <^ing 
8.9; ^is 102.25; 3^isre 348.22 ; ^isra 384.4; ^issere4.ii; ^ridda28.4; 
?riwa 66.24 ; widewe 148.10 ; wilde 208.22 ; wilige 182.22 ; willan 6.27 ; 
wiliaio.i; wind 26.10; windan 66.24; winnan 164.21; winter 24.18; 
gewiss96.3; gewissian 52.15; edwist 56.16; wiste 402.11; -wita 44.26; 
wite6.i9; -gewiten 604.8 ; witon 286.15; -witt 26.14; wi^6.35; wi^^er- 
12.22; wi^^a 594.30; wlite 46.5; wlitig 10.16; -wrigen- 60.1; -writ 
2.12; -writen 282.17; -writon 598.22; wrid^a 568.33; -wrigen 456.9; 
-wri^ian 446.1 ; -writon 596.22. 

2. The representative of WS. >, the i-umlaut of WG. «: — 
bicgan 182.6; -^biligan 516.20; -cnittan 476.5; Drihten2.i9; fiHan 
10.20; fliht 572.9; frim^ 172.24; hig- 482.10; hiht24.2; hingrian 166.1 ; 
hricg 286.24; lire 550.28; -mindig 354.30; -nihtsumian 124.15; sin- 
derlice 96.21 ; sticce 380.24 ; stic- 108.19; tihtan 70.35; -tingnys 26.12; 
trimming 448.9; 3^illic 406.21; ^incan 96.1; -^inc^u 82.1; -iJriccan 
494.5; -^ricced- 608.20; ^rim- 112.10. 

3. WG. e BEEORE A NASAL, WS. i\ — niman 26.29. 

4. The representative of WS. t>, «-umlant of ea^ the break- 
ing OF WG. a :— hlihgan 180.14; -sliht 482.33; -slih^ 240.27. 

5. The representative of WS. t>, the «-umlaut of eo : — gingra 
420.28; hire (gsf.)(?) 316.30; hire (dsf.) (?) 276.12; -sihst 286.23; -sih^ 
4.26. 

6. The representative OF WS. i<?, the <?-umlaut of WG. t: — 
^isne 352.22. 

7. The representative of WS. io^ the «-umlaut of WS. t, WG. 
e followed by a nasal: — sinu 236.21. 

8. The representative of WS. io^ the «-umlaut of WG. t : — 
-nipu 614.29; sindon 446.7; 3^isum (ds.) 328.18; ^isum (dpi.) 356.5. 

9. The representative of WS. «>, palatal umlaut of ea^ 
THE breaking OF WG. a BEFORE A-J-A CONSONANT: — miht 6.17; 
mihte 384.1; -mihtig4.5; niht 36.28. 

10. The REPRESENTATIVE OF WS. I>, PALATAL UMLAUT OF ^0, THE 

BREAKING OF WG. ^ : — cniht 62.17; -nihtan 8.13; silf (Cf. Sievers- 
CooK, § loi, N. 2) 578.17; six 14.29; sixta 44.15. 

11. The REPRESENTATIVE OF WS. t>, DEVELOPED FROM WG. € 
THROUGH THE INFLUENCE OF A PRECEDING PALATAL :—gifan 32.35; 

g:ife 34.27; -gifen 472.25; gifu 2.6; -gild 474-33; gilp 124.4; -giltan 
180.26; andgit (?) 86.26; -gitan 140.31; -giten 540.19; -scirian 124.6. 

12. WG. a, WS. I :— swilc (Goth, swaleiks) 2.2. 

13. Shortened from WG. f, generally with gemination of 

THE FOLLOVimG CONSONANT OR WITH ASSIMILATION OF THE TWO 



STRESSED VOWELS OF jELFRICS HOMILIES. 203 

FOLLOWING consonants: — bHss 36.5; liccetere 120.2; liss 330.30; 
riccetere 128.22; riccra 130.33; (bed)rida 472.24; riftere (?) 570.33 ; 
siccetung 86.8; si^.^an 4.13; 3^rittig 20.9; wicce- 474-22; wimman 

40.35- 

14. The contraction of r-}-i : — binnan 22.6. 

15. After the analogy of the past participles of verbs of 
THE First Ablaut Class : frinen 426.3. 

16. Foreign : — bibliotheca 436.13 ; binn (?) 30.31 ; biscop 2.3 ; Crist 
4.3; Antecrist 4.21 ; diaconas 44.8 ; discipul 6.20; diht 40.33; gedihte 
16.3; gimni (Lat. e, followed by nasal) 450.21; Indisc 456.14; lilie 
444.11 ; pistol 436.4. 

17. Of unknown origin i—ablicged 314.16; begriwen 384.25. 

THE VOWEL f. 

1. WG. /, WS. f: — bidan 6.20; -bidian 42.18; bitan 46.27; bli^e 
136. II ; bridel 568.33; cidan 96.1; ci^ (CosijN, g 67) 100.16; drifan 
268.26; -dwinan 592.12; frige-(?) 216.21 ; gitsian 68.26; gitsung 360.6; 
glig 484.3; -gripan 358.26 ; hired 62.19; hiwan 432.28; hiisa (Cosijn, § 
71) 356.33; -hnigan 428.8; hwil 2.1; iiwit 88.34; idel 320.26; isen 
146. 11; lie 60.15; lichama4.25; lician 104.23; lif 8.7; mil 42.35; min 
4.2; ni^ 54.13; rice 6.4; ricetere 82.21; ridan 210.27; gerim 98.24; 
-rima 442.35; -ripian (?) 84.5 ; -risan 20.6; rixian 28.19; scinan 62.30; 
scir 82.11; sicetung 614.15; sid 456.18; side 14.21; -sigan 246.17; 
si?an(?)i46.i2; -slidan 170.18; -slitan 132.17; -smitani24.3i ; -stifian(?) 
598.11 ; -stigan 22.20; -swic 6.32 ; -swican 16.22 ; swig- 218.31 ; tid 32.13 ; 
tima 2.17; -timian 10.32; ^ihan 16.14; <^in i4-6; ^rim 324.17; tfriXxg 
20.32; wic 402.21; wica 242.13; wician 30.10; wid 20.32; wif 14.21; 
win 26.9; wipian 426.30; wis 2.10; wise 176.3; edwit 162.12; -witan 
56.31; wite 12.3; witega 96.27; -witegode 50.13; witegung 80.18; 
-wrih^ 364.27; -writan8.io; -wri^an 208.3. 

2. Lengthened from WG. i with ecthupsis a) Ov g\ — frinan 
78.5; -lire 526.26; li^ 116.35; sil- 454.11; ti^ 384.19; -timian 76.22; 
^nen 200.14. b) of m : — fif 182.16 ; fiftig 20.32. c) of n : — li^e 210.18 ; 
li^nys 320.10; midl 360.19; gesi^um 416.3; -si^ 58.29; simian 298.30; 
sti^ 46.23; swi^2.i7. 

3. The representative of WS. U, the j-umlaut of Sa: — 
-bicnian 106.27; -bigan 170.23; bigels 170.23; cigan 30.7; digelian 
34.14; digellice 4.25 ; -flian 466.3; -fligan 64.22 ; gime- 164.26; gimen 
346.8 ; igeo^ 58.29 ; -ihte 32.25 ; -iwan (?) 220.20 ; lig 68.5 ; liget 222.31 ; 
-lipig 34-4; -tigan 206.10; tige 248.21. 

4. The representivk of WS. ie, the i-umlaut of ^o :— -drih^ 
102. 15 ; -flig^ 606.6 ; flih^ 306.10 ; lihst 378.7 ; lihtan 36.30 ; smic 592.11 ; 
tihst 434.7; -tihst 180.12; -tih^ 514.21. 

5. The representative of WS. ie, the «-umlaut of to before 
w : — hiw 20.34 ; -hiwian 6.18 ; hi wise 310.27 ; hiwung 250.21 ; niw 36.23 ; 
niwelnys 8.24 ; d'iwan 378.2. 

6. The representative of WS. j^, the /-umlaut of WG. ^ :— 
•bisnung 120.28; brice 140.27; bric^ 52.4; drie 24.17; hin^ 340.33; 
-ligenod 54.1 ; -sihton 84.16; Mh 222.12. 



204 



FRANK FISCHER. 



7. The representative op WS. j^, the j-umlaut op ^ prom WG. 
un : — ci^^u 396.25 ; wiscan 594.20 ; gewiscendlice 258.24. 

8. The representative of WS. y, the j-umlaut of WG. «, thk 

LENGTH BEING DUE TO THE LOSS OF A FOLLOWING^: — lllgehid 53O.7. 

9. WS. iu :— fir (CosijN, § 107), 132.25. 

10. The representative op WS. ie^ the contraction of t -f ^ '- — 
hi (npl.) 4.33 ; hi (asf.) 458.16. 

11. The contraction of i-\-u (Cosijn, § 40) :— hwi 320.2 ; ^i 226.10 ; 
for^i 312.27. 

12. The RESULT op secondary lengthening of i: — bigspell 
342.16; bigwist 358.23; -bitene 242.10; -biton 244.17; -blin 434.13; 
-cinan 336.9 ; -dwimor 86.18 ; -gif (WS. ie) 596. 17 ; -gifen (WS. iV) 498.24 ; 
hine 26.22; hlid 222.8; -ligre 240.25; scip 268.25; sigrian 424.33; 
stincan 86.13 > wiglung 476.4. 

13. Latin oe before a nasal (pronounced /): — pinung 160.17. 

THE VOWEL o, 

1. WG. o^ WS. o :— (bc)bod 6.34 ; -boden 596.22; bodig 366.27 ; boga 
212.33; -bogen 434.25; -boht 582.27; -bohte 374.4; -bolgcn 420.1; 
-bora 330.27 ; -bord 246.2 ; -boren 278.8 ; -borgen 56.18 ; -borsten 86.5 ; 
botl 244.18 ; broc 536.1; -brocen 268.25 ; -brocod 464.6 ; brosnung 98.9 ; 
-browen 352.7 ; cnoll 502.13 ; -cora 332.19 ; -coren 324.20 ; -corfen 420.5 ; 
com 184.32; coss 566.19; cossian 566.19; -costnian 166.8; costnung 
4.7 ; -cropen 400.7 ; dohtor 20.8 ; dolh 234.25 ; dorste 316.33 ; drohtnung 
126.2; dropa 296.28; dwollic 602.35; -dwolmann 16.19; Aocc- 142.9; 
fola 216. 11; folc 6.33; folgian 52.6; for 20.10; -foran 20.26; -fored 
(CosijN, §42) 260.29; forhtian 52.15; forma 44.11; forst 84.15; for^ 
16.4 ; God 2.6 ; gode- 62.26 ; gold 6.a ; -golden 332.4 ; goretende 
530.31; -goten- 594.17; hogian 56.23; hoi 160.33; hold 170.9; holt 
384.9; hopa 350.24; hopian 250.25 ; hoppian 202.18; hoppystre 484.3; 
hord 624; hosp 56.11; horig 472.16; horn 522.25; hors 432.33; 
(on)hrop 248.32; -hroren 492.33; -hworfen 590.24; loc 572.27; loco 
566.25; -locen 272.17 ; loddere 256.8 ; lof 10.17; -logen 316.27; -loren 
340.13; losian (CosijN, § 42) 92.2; -loten 276.5; lot- 192.9; mold- 
492.33; -molsnian 218.25 ; -molten 488.7 ; nor^ 10.25; ofer- 12.4; ofet 
352.7; ofost 380.14; oft 74.28; olfend (Cosijn, §42) 330.2; open- 4.25; 
orf ; oxd 4.29 ; or<^ian 86.8 ; o^d'e 6.35 ; oxa 42.25 ; rodor- 308.3 ; rotian 
1 16.7 ; -scofen 332.26 ; scop (Cosijn, §42) 118.1 ; -scoren 448.29 ; scorian 
114.12; scort 218.19; scortlice 202.29; -scoten 502.28; -slopen 86.25; 
snotor 2.14; -soden 84.15; -solcen 306.11; -sorgian 50.25; sorh 
52.18; store 404.25; storm 526.31; -swollen 86.11; -sworcennyy 
428.30; -sworen 132.24; -toga 78.15; -togen 266.4; toll 510.28; toll^re 
324.3; -toren 542.20; -torfian 42.1 ; torr (Cosijn, § 42) 380.8; ge^ofta 
46.12; ge^oflraeden 90.18; jTolian 140.32; jTorfte 18.23; ^om 18.16; 
^oterung 68.7 ; 9rosm 332.17 ; wolcen 22.11 ; wolde 320.7 ; word 18.14 ; 
-worden 432.5 ; -worpcn- 330.9. 

2. WG. «, WS. o :—orw^ne 86.28. 

3. WG. a, before a nasal, WS. q :— Hchomlice 142.7 ; dseghwom- 
Wet 408.6; on 2.2; onettan 384.14; ungesome 478.25; 9one (but cf. 



STRESSED VOWELS OF jELFRICS HOMILIES. 205 

SiEVERS-CooK, §65, N. 2) 352.15 ; for^on (but cf. Sievkrs-Cook, §65, 
N. 2) 172.18; ?onne 2.2; womm 236.31. 

4. \VG. a, WS. o: — nosu 456.8; of 2.7. 

5. The result of the influence of a preceding w on WS. eo^ 

THE tt-UMLAUT OR THE BREAKING OF WG. €', WOrht 360.8 ; WOruld 

3.18. 

6. Shortened from WS. d^ WG. 6^ with gemination of fol- 
lowing CONSONANT I — moddrie 58.3. 

7. The contraction of e-{-o : — nolde 320.9. 

8. After the analogy of the past participles of the Second 
Ablaut Class of verbs : — ^ogeii 448.34 ; -^wogen (?) 472.5. 

9. Foreign: — cocccl 526.21; forca 430.11; offrian 22.33; offring- 
218.9; port- 490.29; portic 508. 10 ; potian 522.25. 

THE VOWEL 6. 

1. WG. 6^ WS. 6 :— blod 6.27 ; blostma 84.13 ; blowan 64.15 ; boc 2.7 ; 
bog 236.19 ; bosm 84.9 ; bot 268.21 ; -bro^ru 32.5 ; dom 2.10 ; don 12.13 > 
flod 20.36; -flor 314.5; -flowend- 334.30 ; foda 42.27; -gefoh 408.16; 
foster- 30.6; fostor 20.34; fot 16.6; frofor 14.19; glowan 424.35; god 
144.33 (good 2.5, g6od 144.28, go6d 238.16); gegodian 266.7; -grof 
466.13; growan 304.26; hlowan 590.15; hoc 362.27; -hofian 2.17; 
•hofon 596.21 ; hrof 22.20; hwon 86.18; nateshwon78.i4; hwonlic38.6; 
locian 152.22 ; -logian 12.33 ; gelome 36.16; mod 2.6; modignys 12.28; 
modor 20.18; moste 268.32 ; mot 260.23; gemot 290.12; moton 350.1; 
genoh 18.2; oga 222.32 ; rod 26.34 ; rohte 162. i ; rot 268.27; -unrotsian 
142.20; rowan 182.32; -scoc 574.15; -slogon 290.30 ; -sloh 404.11; -soc 
390.21; -socon 386.34; sohte 338.31; stod 86.13; stodon 296.3; -stop 
360.35; stow 42.35; swor 452.3 ; -to 2.4;^rowian 26.28; ^woh 418.21; 
wod 26.13; wop 60.15: worian 148.3. 

2. WG. d BEFORE A nasal, WS. (^ :-K:om 290.19; comon 290.16; 
gedon 324.12; mona 14.27; mona^ 98.35; sona 12.3. 

3. The contraction of (^4- a following vowel: — do^ 464.15; 
-fo 72.17 ; -fon 34.31 ; -fo^ 294.26 ; -Hon 162.13 ; scos 456.21. 

4. Lengthened from WS. q, WG. a, with loss of the follow- 
ing nasal: — brohte 230.20; co^ 466.16; -fob 426.16; ol^cung 488.9; 
0^4.9; o^er6.35; softe 164.2; softnys 270.5; so^ 4.15; to^ 126.20; 
gc^oht 96.20 ; ^ohte 82.12 ; woh 8.15. 

5. Lengthened from o^ with ecthlipsis of following ^:— 
broden 300.17. 

6. Ths result of secondary lengthening of o: — bebod 14.12; 
-goten 554-28; hoga 132.13; hogian 38.32; hopian 256.25; hord 78.27; 
horig 456.20; lof 364.8; ofet 546.5; ofne 544.6; on 614.16; or- 52.18; 
wolcen 22.11 ; word 30.35; -worpen- 130.29. 

7. Foreign:— non 108.18; Romanise 318.29 ; rose 64.14; scol 440.8. 

THE VOWEL u. 

I. WG. «, WS. u: — blunnen 544.9; budon 450.6; bugon 316.2; 
-bunden 364.24; -bundon 594-31; burh 22.19; burston 108.20; cnime 
330.28; -cund 348.7; cunne6.i9; cunnon 154.15; -curfe 92.34; -euros 
434.30; cuwon 404.5; -dnigon 340.28 ; drunee 72.11; -druneen 590.30; 



2o6 FRANK FISCHER. 

dugu^ 160.15; dumb 26.12 ; durre 508.32 ; duru 64.31 ; -ffugnon 54^.29; 
-fruma 8.20; fultuni4.8; funde 414.20; -funden 340.5; grund- 72.5; 
-gunnen 270.18; -gunnon 314.10; -gute 420.1; hund 20.31 ; hunger 
58.30; hunta 576.14; huntian 576.25; iugo^ 322.33; ^ugon 44.26; 
-lumpen 316.51; -lumpon 352.24; -luron 360.28; 11/^158.17; -luton 
538.18; mund- 330.27; -munde 42.24; pluccian 212.35 ; -runnen 40.29; 
ffcrutnian 582.26; scoton 404.4; -scofon 402.17; -sprungon 610.12; 
stunt 96.11; sum 2.4; sumerlic 98.22; sund 16.7; -sundron 152.3; 
-sungen 56.27 ; -sungon 582.32 ; simne 14.27 ; sunu 10.10 ; swulton 
404.2; swunce 102.18; swunge 384.6; -swungen 392.3; -trum 421; 
-truma 442.34 ; wyrtruma 132.7; trumnys52.i3; tugon 246.11; tunge 
8.1 ; tungol 64.30; tamian (?) 514.23; -funden 330.20 ;-Jungen 344.12; 
iTurfon 138.21 ; 3^urh2.4; iTurstig 582.25; t5v& 78.19; under 2.16; 
nndern 74.21; ui^el (?) 522.35 ; unne 506.27 ; -unnen 366.16; -unnon 
370.8 ; upp 246.5 ; umon 470.7 ; wuldor 32.26 ; wund 50.26 ; -wunden 
340.1 ; -wundon 84.32 ; wundor 4.31 ; -wunnen 354. 8 ; -wunnon 218.17 ; 
wurdon 3x6.18; wurm 102.6; wurpon 246.2. 

2. WG. ^, WS. «:— bucca (Cosijn, §47) 590.15; cnucian 248.31; 
fiigel 14.28; full 34.7; fur^on 52.34; furfur 360.29; hulc 336.10; lufian 
10.20; murcnian 140.19; must 314.21; pu.sa 254.31; spuman 116.20; 
ufan 6.7 ; -uferian 80.28 ; ufor 70.35 ; wulf 36.15. 

3. WG. o BEFARE NASALS, WS. u\ — cuman 2.19; guma 200.21; 
•hunig 352.7 ; -numa 32.34 ; -numen 296.6; ^unres- 214.28 ; wunian 4.10; 
wunung 12.27. 

4. Due to zc^-influence upon eo or ioy themselves the result 

OF BREAKING OB OF tf-OR ^-LTHLAUT OF A WG. COVii'. -CUCU 16.4; -hwUF- 

fan 562.13; suwian(WG. Q 56.18; swura 46.23; swurd 84.18; swustur 
86.30; swutele 608.29; -swutelian 8.4; swutellice 38.8; tuwa 24.28; 
betwux4.33; uton 14.18; wuce 100.27; wudu 62.34; wuduwe 66.16; 
wurpan 50. 16. ; wurrT 62.8 ; -wur^an 4.5 ; wur^ian 22.32 ; wur^mynt 
10.17; arwur^nes 24.34. 

5. The CONTRACTION OF ^ -f- tt : — bofan 38.31. 

6. Shortened from WS. «, WG. li, with gemination of fol- 
lowing CONSONANT :— hluttor 58.11. 

7. After the analogy of the preterits of contract verbs 
OF THE Second Ablaut Class : 9ugon 444.15. 

8. Latin o before nasals, WS. u : — munuc 2.1 ; munt 440.15 ; pund 
400.19. 

9. Foreign :—€ulfre 104.21; Judeisc 48.19; purpura 328.11; tunece 
34. 29; turtle 140. 1. 

THE VOWEL rf. 

1. WG. 1/, WS. rf: — brucan 12.34; bugan 4,28; bur 458.27; -gebur 
340.8; clut 424.19; dun 8.25; All 458.6; hlud 74.6; huxlice (?) 48.23 ; 
bus 30.14 ; lutian 496.19 ; rum 36.2 ; scnid 66.1 ; scufan 58.26 ; -scunian 
(CosijN» §82) 1 14.5; scur 64.31; sucan 246.21; susl 6.6; truwa 170.28; 
truwian2.i6; tun- 422.11; 9ruh 564.19; <^usend 38.5; -uhtan 74.20; 

Ut6.I2. 

2. WG. 6^ preceded by w\ — hu 6.10; huhe 274.3; ^uni 72.15; 
(bu)tu 18,10, 



SmESSED VOWELS OF jELFRICS HOMILIES, 207 

3. The representative of WG. fl<CosijN, g 7) : — ^bu(tu) 18.10. 

4. The contraction ov e-\-tl : — butan 2.13 (buton 344.30), 

5. ^Lengthened from WG. «, with ecthupsis. a) of ^:— 
-brude 394.14; -fnioon 456.7, b)oFif: — cu9 2.4; cud'ea.ii; dust 
18.18; husul 34.18; mu^ 54.16; su9 504.8; -^uht 318.27; 9uhte 292.5; 
ure 2.19 ; us 76.6 ; u9e 452.19; u^wita (Grein) 60.31. 

6. The result of secondary lengthening op u\ — iu 62.25; 
mund 504.19; mundian 274.6 ; munt 504.28; nu 20.31; swurd 482.22; 
^u 6.28; unforht 592.8; up 188.21 ; wundor 26.2. 

THE VOWEL >'. 

I The i-UMLAUT OF «:— bryne 132,26; -bryrdan 58.14; -bryttan 
464.27; bydel 4.12; -byligan 564.29; -byrd 2.5; -byrdnys 28.24; 
byrgen 26,15; byrian 18. i; -byrian 2.2; byrig 22,20; byrigan 
26.35; byrgen 62.34; byr^ere 308.13; byr^re 2iai6; gebytlc 
66.11 ; bytming 5^6.10 ; -dyppan 136.25; cyfe 58.25 ; cyme 24.13 ; cymst 
34.21; cym3^ 28.14; cyning 2.3 (cyneg 232.4, cyng 212.7); cynn 2.19; 
cyrce 42.35; cyrclk 15a 26; cyre iai9; -cyrf (?) 94.32; cymel 
236.17; cyrtel 64.13; cyssan 430-3 1 ; cyst 66,2; cystig 6a 14; -dwyW 
(?) 8.14; -dyre 310.28; dyrstig 506.31; dyrstignes 70.7; -dyrst- 2.15; 
dyselig 94.35; dyslic 60.22; frym? 4.1; fylian 382.18; fyligan 
50.28; fylian 58.24; fylst 8.8; fyrhtan 30.17; fyrmest 44.14; -fyr^rian 
210.13; gryre 470.8; gyden 426.7; gylden 60.29; gylt 164.27; gyrdel 
86.9; gyte 54424; Wyst 138.27; hlystan 54.16; hlyte 346.29; hryre 
32.38; -hwyrft 30.2; -hycgan 300.19; -hyldan 542.29; hyll 576.26; 
hyrdel 430.23 ; hyrn- 106.12; hyrned 102.7; hyse- 80.15; -lybbc 72.24; 
lyffetung 492.32 ; lyffetynd 492.28 ; lyftcn 308.3 ; lyre 6.27 ; oflyst 136.6 ; 
ly Stan 148.24; -mynd 220.3; -myndan 80.12; -niyndig6.9; mynegian 
56.20; -mynegian 88.22; mynegung 6.29; mynetere 406.17; mynster 
2.4; wur^mynt 10.17; myrig 154.11 ; myrh^ 154.11; nyt 412.12; ryne 
80.32 ; -rynel 356.21; lysel 522.34; ry^^a 372.34; scyld410.11; -scyl- dian 
12.21 ; -scyldig 6.34 ; scyle 198.28 ; -scyte 608.32 ; scytra 612.33 ; -scyttan 
540.31 ; -slype 456-19 ; smylte 182.32 ; smyltnys 608.13 ; spryttan 216.14 ; 
spyrn(5r 390.10; styrian 44.28; styrung 36ai6; syfling (Cf. Grein 
s. V. gfsyflan) 188.19; symbel 20.35; syn 6.2; synderlice 22.23; 
getr>'niman 4.9; tyrnan 514-20; -^ry ocean 534.25; -^ryccednys 608.7 ; 
-3^rymm 28.15; (/#)Jryt (?) 88.32; -^yldigan 56.16; -^yldlicc 56.13; 
^yllic 42.30; -^yrl 584.28; ^yrnen 162.14; ^yrstan 336.3; -wynsum 
184. 1 ; andwyrdan 62.6; awyrdnys 136.31; (for)wyrd 4.12; -wyrdan 
4.24; gcwyrdelic 58.7 ; wyrdwrltere 80.5; wyrhta 8.5; wyrm 132.19; 
wyrt 304.25; wyrtruma 132.7; yfel 4.12; yfetnest 308.9; >'mbe ia3. 

2. The representative of iV, the i-umlaut of ea\ — gebyld 
52.17; -byldan 310.7 ; byldo 2.8; cwylmian 86.3; cyle 84.14; -cyrran 
6.29; -fyldan 184.31; fyll 380.28; -fylian 380.20; fyl^ 160.6; fyrd 312.3; 
gyrd 62.34; g>Tela 29^.31; gyrla 88.35; -hwyrfan 60.23; hwyrftlian 
514.21; -hyldan 160.34; hylt 54.13; hyrwan 424-13; -myrran 372.3; 
nyrwan 34.35; -nyrwian 410.1 ; -scyppan 16.21; styrnlic 182.34; sylen 
584.17; syllan 54.4; syrewung 80.34; syr^an 82.20; syrwian 374.19; 
-?ryle 34-34; -^wyh^ 618.12; wycx^ 15427; -wyldan 28.12; -wyllde 



2o8 FRANK FISCHER. 

568.9; wyll-22.3; wylm 96.25; -wyltan 322.8 ; -wyriged 18.16; -wyrnan 
14.3; -wyrpan 46.3; wyx^ 278.25; yld 84.3; yldian 350.14; yiding 
220.9; yldra 60.23 ; yrtn^u 184.32. 

3. The representative of WS. ie, the f -umlaut op eo, to : — 
-bryc^ 272.6; byrnan 118.2; byr^ 182.12; -cnyrdnys 118.7; cwyrn- 
514.17; cwyst 380.3; cwy^ 5429; cyriO 472.15; cyrm 618.17; -fyni 
94.12; fyr- 106.21; -fyrsian 124.31; gyh^a 86.12; gyrnan 140.32 ; hyrde 
6.13; hyrc (gsf.) 346.26; hyre (dsf.) 276.13; -hyrtan 152.31; -lyhtan 
400.25; scylfe 166.16; -scyrtan4.6; tyrian 132.26; tyrwan 20.33; wyfst 
488.25 ; -wyrpst 588.5 ; wyrresta 384.3 ; wyrsa 10.35 '. wyrsian 124^26 ; 
wyrsta 66.29; -wyr<5^ 264.22; yrfe- 32.34; yraan 104.5; yrsian 362.30; 
yrsung 592.3 ; yr^- 450.11 ; yrJling 342.6. 

4. The representative of WS. io, eoy the £?-umlaut of WG. i\ 
— byfian 108.21; clypian 6.31; gynian 160.9; hyra (gpl.) 453*15* 
andlyfa 398.31; sy^^an 6.15; (Cf. Sievers-Cook, § 109, N.); tylian 
242.1; ^ysne 364.22. 

5. The representative of WS. ie, the ^-umlaut of WG. %\ — 
lyma 604.35; lymum 596.14; syndon 276.8. 

6. The representative of WS. t\ WG. f : — bysegian (Cosijn, g 
32, p. 50) 306.3; bysmor 152.7; byst 488.24; byternys 408.26; cwyc- 
328.21 ; cwyddian. 364.14 ; cwyde 28.20 ; cwyld 614.9 '* -cwysan (?) 60.24 ; 
cyld 140.1; cyrps 456.24; -dylegian 68.11; fylmen 94.13; fyren- 96.15; 
fyrst 58.22; fy^er- 364.28; gyf 464.22; angyn 70.19; -gynnan 612.5; 
hwylc 286.26; lybban 266.2; mycel 2.9; myld 210.9; niyslic 
84.24; nygon- 432.21; nygo^^a 554.11; nyd'emest 536.10; ny^er 
170.23; -ny^erian 300.29; ny^eweard 536.9; scylling 88.4; scypmen 
244.29; -styllan 156.19; -swycon 70.32; swyft 29(5.33; -swylc^ 216.12; 
swylt 6.30; swymman 276.13; syge 84.31; sylfren 366.25; symle 
36.14; synd 244.10; untwylice 282.30; getwysa 110.21; tydder 286.8; 
-tymbrian 144.33; ^yder 384.13; -^yged 266.15; 9ygen 266.17; 9yses 
324.8; ^ysre 294.23; ^yssera 266.17; 9yssere 272.4; wylla 258.19; 
wyllan 20.28 ; wyn.stre 222.14; ylca (?) 6.23. 

7. The representative of WS. f , WG. e^ before a nasal :— 
-nyman 322.9. 

8. The result of the influence of the preceding w in WS. 
weo^ wiOt DEVELOPED FROM AN ORIGINAL WG. we^ uH I — swyster 
58.20; 3^wyr 174.27; ^wyrlic 4.22; iJwyrnys 4.32; wydewe 60.12; 
wyrcan 4.3 ; wyr^ 4-33- 

9. Due to the influence of a preceding palatal, a) On e : — 
gyddian 410.16; gyfan 20.17; -gyfcn 498-34; gyfta 58.8; gyld 70.23; 
•gyldan 96.19; gylp 62.7; gyrstan 5633; gyse(?)i4.4; -gytan 140.3; 
-scyldan 52.15; -scyrian 98.9. b) on £, the i-umlaut of g: — 
-scyndan 48.19. 

10. The representative of WS. ie, the palatal umlaut of eo, 
which has arisen from WG. e through breaking : — sylf (Sievers- 
Cook, S loi, N. 2) 6.15; syx 202.2; syxtig- 148.20. 

11. The representative of WS. ^, the i-umlaut of g, WG. a 
before a nasal :— <:ynnestre 352.27 ; -stynt 158,35. 

12. The contraction of f + t;— bynnan 22.1; nys 274.21; nyste 



STRESSED VOWELS OF CLERICS HOMILIES, 



299 



366.6; nyston 106.4; nytan 92.30; nyte 343.30; nyten62.i4; rtytetmys 

384.27. 

13. Shortened from ^ with gemination of the following 

CONSONANT ; — tfryimys 134.4; yttra 530.14. 

14. WG. a : — swylc (Goth, swaleiks) 33.25. 

15. Foreign : — cyrographum 300.5 ; gymm (WS. t, Lat. e foliowed 
by nasal), 458.24; myrram 78.28 (myrran 116.6.) 

16. Of UNKNOWN ORIGIN : — dyde 352.17; nywerenan 566.5; wyln 
110.27. 

THE VOWEL j^. 

1. The t-UMLAUT of WG. 1/:— bryd 58.14; -byh^ 288.9; bysen 8.1 ; 
bysnian 6.23 ; -clysan 86.30 ; clysing 332.20 ; dry 370.31 ; dryg<^ 284.35 1 
drypan (Cosijn, § 83) 118.4; -fylan 110.20 ; fyr (CosijN, § 107) 6.3 ; fyren 
(CosijN, § 107) 132.18 ; Hlyda 100.5 "» hydan 108.18 ; hyra (CosijN, g 83) 
238.13; lyt6.22; lytel 64.14; ryman 28.12; rymet 30.14; geryne 9a8; 
geryno 154.6; scrydan 18.20; ^ryh 222.8; iJyde (Cosijn, §83) 88.10; 
yting 34.13. 

2. The j-umlaut of ti (from WG. un) :— cy^an 6.32 ; cy^ere 384.28 ; 
cydtfM 396.27 ; hry^er- 322.35 ; hyW 240.30; y^ 108.17 ; y^ung 492.1. . 

3. The REPRESENTATIVE OF WS. ie^ the i-UMLAUT OF ia \ — byme 
6.32 ; cypa 406.17 ; gecype 406.17 ; cyping 406.6 ; cypman 406.1 ; -dydan 
402.11; -flya? 344.28; -flyman 524.28; gyman 342.31; gyme- 
8.12 ; gymcn 28.21 ; hlytta 34.1 ; hryman 46.33; hyhsta 198.30; -bypan 
410.21; -hype 492.33; hyran 2.9; -hyrsum 14.5; -hyrsumian 12.12; 
•lyfan 24.26; -lysan 6.29; -lyft 226.3; nyd- 256.30; nydan 12.15; nyten 
14.14 ; -rypan 66.11 ; -scyte 466.14; slype 376.30; stypel 22.19; syferays 
360.5; syfre 596.32; gesyman 458.23; -tygan 206.11; tyman 18.26; 
yean 32.20; -ywan 170.33. 

4. The representative of WS. 1^, the i-umlaut of A; : — bry^ 
250.21; -byt 178.27; bytt 358.31 1 dyrling 58.1; flyhiT 238.14; frynd 
50.23; fynd 50.24; hryst 368.25; -hryw^ 598.8; -lyhtan 286.1; -lyst 
54.1 ; -lys^ 338.24; ly3^er (Cf. Cosijn, § 106) 168.6; scyt 362.22; -scyt 
346.5 ; strynan 20.8 ; styran 360.15 ; ansyn 46.6 ; twyn 116.16 ; betwynan 
(?) 256.30; twynian 132.27; twynung 72.32; tyn 10.12; ^ystru 144.10. 

5. The representative of W^S. ie^ the *-umlaut of io before 
w : — hywed 406. 11 ; nyw 540.34 *. nywclnys 174.25. 

6. The representative of WS. fe, the result of palatal 
influence on /, the j-umlaut of WG. d: — ^gescy 404.5. 

7. The representative of <#, the j-umlaut of 4, WG. ai:— 
bryden (?) 288.4. 

8. The representative of WS. /, WG. /:— myse 188.34. 

9. The representative of WS. /, /-umlaut of WG. ^:— bewypan 
(?) 84.29. 

10. The representative of WS. f, WG. f:— gyferays 86.6; 
gytsere 64.33; hyred 92.10; hywan 430.31; -ryman 538.12; 
-scyran 298.33 ; -swyc^ 304-27; twyfealdlic 140.16; tyma 18.26; ^rym 
368.1 ; ydel 60.33; -ydlian 60.5. 

11. The representative of WS. i (from WG. in):— -swy^an 
462.12; swy<5^e 372.1 ; swy<Tra 48.11. 



2IO FRANK FISCHER. 

12. The contraction of t-|-^:— sy 5415; syn (?) 264.1 ; ffry 20.29. 

13. The contraction of t -f « (Cosijn, S 40) :— <Jy 382.32. 

14. Lengthened from y^ after loss of a following g: — 
ingehyd 280.12. ' 

15. Due to secondary lengthening of y, the representa- 
tive OF WS. f , WG. f : — 5ygen 266.8. 

16. The representative of WS. ie^ of unknown origin : — gyt 
14.17; gyta 608.29. 

THE DIPHTHONG ea. 

1. The breaking of WG. a, a) Before /-f a consonant : — 
beald- 52.17; -bealh 372.17; ceald 320.23; -cweald 48.22; cwealm 
608.18; ealdor 10.21; -ealgian 502.31; eall 4.6; ealswa 342.6; -feald- 
32.25; -feald 100.19; -feallan 12.4; -geald 474.1; gealga 588.16; gealh' 
472.8; gealla 584.34; -healden 4.9; healf4.3i ; heall 52.20; healt 26.11 ; 
•seald 474.12 ; sealde 62.21 ; sealf 220.31 ; sealm- 106.11 ; -stealde 50.2 ; 
steall 48.29; -swealh 246.12; swealt 434.11; -teald 328.29; wealcan 
250.17; weald 6.19; wealdan 64.16; wealh- 436.14; weall 106.12; 
wealian 58.25. b) Before r-f a consonant: — beard 456.18; beam 
20.7 ; cearcian 132.30 ; cweartera 72.19 ; dearr 458.17 ; eard 8.3 ; earfo^- - 
4.10; earm 64.32; -eamian 8.6; eart 54.10; fearr 502.9; geard 4.2; 
gearcian 12.2; heard 48.2; heann 56.2; hearpe 322.33; hwearflian 
392.34; mearcian 310.27; neani (Sievers-Cook, § 105, N.) 34.32; 
scearp 434.8; scearpnys 58.30; searo- (Sievers-Cook, § 105, N.) 
192.15; spearca 466.26; stearc 362.34 ; sweart4.i3; teart- 330.1; jTearf 
342.2; ^earflice 556.15; ^earfa54.2; ^earl 34.34; weard 572.30; for- 
weard 92.34; in weardlice 58.16; wi^erweardnys 12.22 ; -wearp 246.18; 
wear9 2.2. c) Before ^, -f a consonant or final: — eahta 90.29; 
leahtor6.33; -leahtrian 8.12; -seah 2.8; seax 88.9; ge^eaht 44.30; 
^eahtian 572.30; weaxan 20.19; -weaxen 258.18. 

2. The k-umlaut of WG. a : — bealu 266.14 ; -freatwian 62.26; gearu 
18.2; -sceadewian 198.30; sceadu (but of. Sievers-Cook, g 105, N. i) 
316.15; sceadwung 610.1; screafe (dat. sing.; from analogy of the 
plural) 406.3. 

3. Due to the influence of a preceding palatal upon WG. 
«:— ceaf 594.6; ceaflas 534-17; ceaster 30.20; -geaf 76.12; geafol 
430.5; geat 76.3; -sceacan 212.10; gesceaft 8.24; sceal 6.14; scealt 
578.17; sceamian 18.12; sceamu 256.5; -sceamul 262.5; -sceap 94.1; 
-sceapen 70.17; gesceapu 86.10; sceatt 88.4; scea^a 72.30; slcac 
(Sievers-Cook, § 210.1) 602.15; sleacnys 350.15. 

4. The representative of WS. eo^ the o-umla^t of WG. f : — 
teala 332.15. 

5. The representative of WS. eoj the breaking of WG. ^:— 
Sflhearwen (a corruption of the stem of hweorfan f) 454.11. 

THE DIPHTHONG ia. 

I. WG. a«, WS. ^a :— beacen 44.22; -bead 294.17; beagian 50.12; 
-beah 298.28; -beamed 610.2; -beat 406.8; beatan 432.12; -beaten 
432.12; breac 450.2; -brea^ 10.18; ceac- 428.1; ceap 406.15; -ceapian 
62. J ; -ceas 258.9; ceast 408.26; deadlic 14.2; deaf 26.13; dreah 



STRESSED VOJVELS OF jELFRICS HOMILIES, 211 

452.35; dream 524.34; eac 2.16; eaca 30.9; eacan 52.20; eadignys 
32.32; eadmodnys 12.27; eas:ei8,3; eah- 474.8; eala (CosijN, §92) 
40.6 ; eare 46.33 ; eastan 42.34 ; Easter- 182.3 > eajTelic 4.7 ; fleah 466.12 ; 
fleam (CosijN, § 92)82.26; geaplice (Cf. Grkin, s. v. ^^a^) 80.9; 
gleawlice 122.18; great 52.8; heafod3o.4; heah 10.13; heap 298.10; 
heawan 62.34; hleapung 480.35; hream 156.26; -hreas 608.26; -leac 
272.15 ; lead 254.26 ; leaf 236.19 ; geleafa 6.19 ; leah 170.4 ; lean 200.16 ; 
edlean6.6; leas 4.30; leasung 6.5; leat 296.2; neadian 4.18; read 
46. 16 ; reaf 18. 19 ; -reafian 428.5 ; -sceaf 570.28 ; sceat 502. 18 ; sceawian 
76.11; screadian (?) 88.9; seam 20.33; -searian 610.19; sea^ 488.5; 
smeagan (Cosijn, g 92) 10.2 ; steam 86.14 ; steap 456.17 ; stream 562.15 ; 
streamlic 444.10; streaw 404.6; racenteag 434.8; teah 378.9; team 
238.1; fTeah 2.1; /Teaw 94.32; fTreagan 66.34; d'reagian 360.17; <5"real 
362.34; ^rean 52.18; ^reat 346.32; d'reatian 126.6; ^reatung 410.8; 
^rea/^ 530.7. 

2. Due to the influence of a preceding palatal upon d or 
d : — gea 316.32 ; gear 4.31 ; -geaton 68.4 ; -scead 96.13 ; -sceadan 344-2 ; 
-scean 30.16; sceap 240.18; scea^ 482.32. 

3. Due to the influence of a following w on an original 
WG. a : — feawe 70.21. 

4. Due to the influence of a following w upon d^ the 
t-UMLAUT OF 4, WG. ai\ — eaw- 314.12; hreaw 380.34. 

5. The REPRESENTATIVE OF WG. d BEFORE k (Cf. SlEVERS-CoOK, 

§ 57.2. d) : — neawist (h has disappeared) 346.18. 

6. The representative of WS. /<?, WG. iu : — hreaw 606.1. 

7. The contraction OF WG. «-!-£?,«:— ca 86.20; geslea 568.32; 
-slea^ 86.35 ; tear 66.29 *» -^wean 464.17. 

8. The contraction of WG. d-\-u : — nean 24.14; near 268.27. 

9. The contraction of WG. e-^-o (Cf. Sievers-Cook, § 113): — 
gefea 30.19 ; gefean 340.17. 

10. After the analogy of the preterits of the Second 
Ablaut Class: ^eah 558.10; -wreab 328.16. 

11. Lengthened from ea^ the palatalization of WG. a, with 
ECTHLiPsis OF THE FOLLOWING ^ : — ongean 10.26. 

THE DIPHTHONG to. 

1. The breaking of ^, t. a) Before r-\- k consonant : — beorg 
40.34 ; -beorgan 416.17 ; beorhtnys 30.16 ; ceorfan 516.4 ; ceorlian 238.1 ; 
-cneordlice 36.11; -dcorf 56.3; eornostlice 38.13; eor^e 6.9; feorh 
88.17, (feore, dat., 384.7); -feormian 98.14; feomo6.i6; feorran 358.7 ; 
-georn 60.14; geornlice 8. 11; heorcntan 362.11; heorcnung 26.13; 
heord- 502. 10 ; heorte 10.23 » leorning 2.20 ; neorxna- (?) (but cf. Grein) 
12.34 ;'gereord 2.7; steorfan 398.34; steorra 14.28; d'weoran 232.7; 
iTweorh 302.30 ; ^weorian 380.8 ; weorc 8.7 ; weomian 64.15; -weor^an 
I4-35- b) Before A,-f a consonant or final :— feoh 66.10 ; feohtan 
48.30; leohtra (breaking of shortened WG. i) 330.11; meox 118. 15; 
pleoh 178.34; beseoh 566.14; -teohode 198.27; betweox 246.2. c) 
Before tn : eom 4.3.- 

2. The i^UMLAUT of e^ i\ — ceosol 536.31; heofon 6.8; heonon 



2 1 2 FRANK FISCHER. 

22.13; beneo(Tan 86.9; neo^or 50.4; seofontig 26.6; seofo<9^a 14.31; 
seolfor 22.29; sweoster 260.19; fifteogo 7a 310.24 ; weoruld 4.19. 

3. The £?-umlaut of e^ i: — ceorian 338. 10 ; heora 70.22; hreopian 
316.16; bigleofa 54-3 » leofast 584.17; leofad^ 266.1; leofode 392.19; 
endleofta 298.5; teolian 392.19; teolung 66. xo; -teorian 58.10; 
-teorigendlic 56.16. 

4. Due to palatal influence on o, «:— gcoc 212.10; geogo^ 
'^ C'jL^ . 340.27; geond 308.19; geong 48.1; sceocca 166.26; -sceofen 270.2; 

^ ^ * sceoldest 592.24 ; sceole 594.10 ; sceolon 264.34 ; -sceop 106. 11 ; bisceop 

o . /Y, 290.3 ; -sceoren 488.9 ; sceorian 72.9 ; -sceoten 506.7. 

5. The result of contraction in the preterits of certain 
reduplicating verbs: — ^feol 316.29 (feoll 316.34); feoUon 244.16; 
-heold 560.1; heoldon 378.26; weolc 448.17; -weold 402.27; weollon 

472.30. 

THE DIPHTHONG So, 

1. WG. eu, WS. So: — 7eodan 14.8; -beor 484.1 ; -beorscipc 74.16; 
breost 84.16; -breo^an 268.11; -ceocod (?) 216.16; ceosan 24.20; 
anccleow* 466.25 ; creopan 486.29 ; deop 514.18 ; deopnys 110.33 *» deor 
360.18; deorcynn 14.14; dreorig6o.i5; eow (dat.) (Kluge) 330.5 ; cow 
(ace.) (Kluge) 16.33; eower 416.5; fleogan 380.17; fleoh 78.33; fleo^ 
142.9; greot 74.24; heofian 180.15; heofigan 86.33; heofung 342.14; 
hleo(Trian 38.7; hreofla 120.14; hreoflia 122.29; hreoflig 26.11; hreoh 
182.33; hreosan 380.28; -hreosan 72.2 ; hreow6.i6; hreowsung 68.17; 
leod 70.6; leof 28.20; leogan 16.20; leoht 18.22; leoma 108.18; -leosan 
1 12.2; neod 42.6; -neosian 44.1; reocan 336.33; -reonian 388.5; 
-reonung 380.7 ; -reow 232.30 ; sceotan 170. i ; -seoc 26.13 *» steor 186.20 ; 
-streon 60.23; teona (CosijN, § loi) 48.15; iTeod 6.21; ^eof 72.19; 
^eosterfuU 68.4 ; ^eostru 36.19; -^eote22.4; d'eotan 374.9. 

2. Due TO THE influence of a preceding palatal upon^: — 
geomerian 142.17; -sceoc 570. 14 ; -sceop 276.2; sceopon 478.9. 

3. Due to the influence of a following w on an original 
WG. ^, f : — cneowian 578.7 ; cneowu48.4; eowd 244.6; eowod 30.15; 
fee wer 16.5 ; treow 18.3; treowa 102.22; 9eowa 38.26; d'eowian 
74.1; <^eowrace 446.17. 

4. Due to the influence of a following w on WS. i, thb 
t-UMLAUT OF WG. d: — ^fleow^ 102.30; speow^ 526.16. 

5. The contraction of i ORi-\-a or d: — beot 568.22; •beotlice 
380.29; deofol4.i5; freolice 228.2 ; freols 76.26. 

6. The contraction of / or I -f ^ or » : — beo 374.20; been 266.6; 
beo<J 342.35; eode (Cosijn, § 38.2) 400.26; feond 56.5; freond 56.6; 
heo 24.26; seo24#33; -9eon 100.31; d'eos .276.12; d'reo 24.9; 9reora 
42.34; -wreon 278.14; -wreo^ 580.27. 

7. The contraction of ^-|- ^ or « ; — seo (ace. sing.) 516.23 ; geseo 
386.29; geseon 72.14; -teontig 92.20; teo^a 10.21; teo^iaii 178.30; 
tweo 106.30; untweolice 360.25; betweonan 30.28; tweonian 72.30. 

8. The contraction of So + a following vowel : — feor9a4.3i ; 



*Eitber by ^nidation from Gtrm. 00, or from analogy of cm^cw, ate. Thut, ' Phil. Soc 
Eag, Diet,' M, r, ankU. 



SmESSED VOWELS OF jELFRICS HOMILIES. 213 

feor^incg 268.1; feos (gen.) 452.23 (f(6o, dat., 316.25); fleon37?.i7; 
-teo 22.11 ; -teon 82.22. 

9. Thb representative of WG. au\ — eowian 74.13. 

10. Lengthened from io with ecthlipsis of a following A, 
THE eo being derived from «, WG. i : — weofod 54.19. 

11. Lengthened owing to analogy :—freoh 76.13 (after the 
analogy of the contract ioxxtifrio), 

13. The result of contraction in the preterits of certain 
reduplicating verbs : — beoton 424.32 ; -bleow 12.29 '» -cneow 314.14 ; 
-cneowon 438.8; fleow 86.11; heowon 112.33; hweos 86.7; -weep 
604.27 ; -weope 402.5. 

14. After the analogy of the preterits of the reduplicat- 
ing VERBS : speonon 410.33 ; weox 356.33 ; weoxon 186.31. 

15. After the analogy of the present tense : — hreow 66.21. 

16. After the analogy of such verbs as biodan\~^c^oi2Xi 

590-33- 

17. Foreign : — leo 102.5; preost 2.1. 



V. — The Huguenot Elemeni in Charleston's Pronunciadon, 

By SYLVESTER PRIMER. Ph. D. 

PROFESSOR OF FRENCH AND GERMAN IN THE COLLEGE OF CHARLES- 
TON, CHARLESTON, S. C. 

In a paper read a year ago before this body I endeavored to 
sketch the main features of the Anglo-Saxon element in the 
pronunciation of Charleston, reserving for some future occasion 
the Huguenot, German, and negro influences upon the same. 
In the present paper, I purpose investigating the influence which 
the Huguenots may have had upon the English sounds ; for it 
is evident that such a large foreign element as that of the 
Huguenots of Charleston, could not have been incorporated into 
the body politic of the State in its very infancy without exerting 
a considerable influence upon the manners and customs, the 
politics and legislation, the grammar and language, of the whole 
community. — But a short sketch of the Huguenot refugees in 
South Carolina, of their first settlements and incorporation into 
the state, and the gradual disappearance of the French langu^e 
will, however, be necessary in order to show clearly the condi- 
tions under which the two languages met and struggled for the 
mastery. The conflict resulted in the supremacy of the English 
and the suppression of the French. 

In the absence of an extended history, " there being no con- 
siderable account yet published of these South Carolina Hugue- 
nots," I have been compelled to gather my information from 
various pamphlets in which phrases of Huguenot history have 
been considered, and from local tradition. This element was 
very important in the first setdement of the State and contrib^ 
uted largely to its formation and development The foremost 
patriots and statesmen came from its ranks to defend and guide 
the state during peril and in peaceful times of progress and 
advancement. Early in their history (1737) they formed in 
Charleston the " South Carolina Society," a " benevolent organ- 
ization which, in 1837, celebrated its centennial" (Prof. Wm* 
J. Rivers in Winsor's 'Narrative and Critical History of 
America,' vol. v, p. 349). They have ever been identified with 
the party of progress and shown themselves the most public- 
spirited citizens on all occasions. 

In tracing back the history of the Huguenots it will be found 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON 215 

• 
that the larger proportion of the families came from the towns 

and villages of the Loire and Gironde (departments of Angou- 
mois, Saintonge, and Aunis). They escaped first to Holland 
and England and passed thence to this country. The little dis- 
trict of Aunis, which had been cut off from Saintonge and 
appended to La Rochelle, was more especially the birthplace of 
American Huguenots, since it sent a larger number to us than 
any other part of France. Saintonge and La Rochelle were 
well represented. The island of R€, just opposite La Rochelle, 
also sent a small quota. But emigrants from all parts of France 
gathered here, — Picardy, Bretagne, Tours, St. Amboise, Poitou, 
Soubise, Normandy, Guyenne, Loudun, St. Soline, Montpelier, 
Paris, Berry, Brie, Dieppe, being represented. Switzerland also 
furnished a few settlers from Yverdon. — We shall have to base 
our investigation principally, therefore, on the pronunciation of 
the French of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in and 
about La Rochelle, La Saintonge, and Aunis, widi allowances 
for dialectical difl'erences for the other sections represented. 

The first notice we have of the French settling in South 
Carolina i^ in 1670, when Richard Batin, Jacques Jours, Richard 
Deyos, and others were made freeholders with the same rights in 
every respect as the English colonists. Weiss in his history 
of the Huguenots says : " Everything induces us to believe that 
these French emigrants were refugees for religion's sake, for the 
state archives of Charleston contain numerous like concessions, 
made to Huguenot fugitives, during the first years of the estab- 
lishment of the colony. In 1677, to Jean Bullon ; in 1678, to 
Jean Bazant and Richard Gaillard ; in 1683, to Marie Batton, 
wife of Jean Batton." In 1680, the English frigate. The Rich- 
mond, brought over forty-five French refugees to Carolina *' by 
express command of Charles II, who paid himself the expenses 
of their transportation. A more considerable number soon fol- 
lowed them, in another vessel chartered by the English govern- 
ment" (Ibid.). Besides the Huguenots who came directly to 
South Carolina, many of those who had settled in various parts 
of America finally immigrated there. For this reason, a large 
proportion of the French fugitives seeking an asylum in this 
country settled definitely in this State where the climate was so 
nearly like that of Southern France. The most of the French 
refugees in Virginia and North Carolina left their first American 
homes and removed to the French settlements in and about 
Charleston, " the Home of the Huguenots in the New World.*' 



2i6 SYLVESTER PRIMER. 

They established themselves in various places of secondary 
importance, but formed three principal colonies: i. Orange 
Quarter, on the banks of Cooper River ; 2. Santee ; 3. Charles- 
ton. 

1. Orange Quarter, on the banks of the Cooper River, lay 
amid the primitive forests where they could "worship God 
without fear of man or of royal edicts, and their psalms 
mingled with the free winds of heaven." In the early days of 
the setdement they used to attend church in Charleston, rowin||r 
thither in their convenient boats. They first formed a setdement 
on the site of the modern Strawberry Ferry, where they built a 
church, " of which Florent Philippe Trouillart became the first 
pastor." 

2. The Santee received its principal grant of three hundred 
acres of land in 1705, to Ren6 Ravenel, Barth61emy Gaillard, 
and Henri Bruneau. One hundred (some say one hundred and 
eighty) French families setded here and built Jamestown. 
According to the best information their first pastor was Pierre 
Robert, a Swiss, " who doubdess accompanied a party of the 
fugitives in their escape firom France." This became the most 
flourishing colony of French emigrants to South Carolina after 
that of Charleston and '' even acquired such importance, that 
the name of French Santee was given to that part of the coun- 
try, which may still be found upon the old maps of North 
America." There were here also about sixty English fiimilies. 
Later, the Rev. Philip de Richbourg, "a worthy and pious 
man," became their pastor, or, according to some accounts, he 
was their first minister. 

3. Far the richest and most populous Huguenot setdement 
was in the city of Charleston, " where entire streets were built 
by them. One still bears the name of the founder, Gabriel 
Guignard.'' Their first pastor was Elias Prioleau, the grandson 
of Antoine Prioli, who is said to have been the Doge of Venice 
in 1618. Elias Prioleau, was *' doubdess the son of Benjamin 
Prioli, the godson of the Duke of Soubise, whom the Duke of 
Rohan had attached to himself during his sojourn in Italy." 
Among those affected by the edict of Nantes, " he brought 
from Saintonge a part of his flock, and took up his abode in 
Charleston, where the family exists even in our day." Among 
the most prominent Huguenot families who settled in Charles- 
ton and most of whose descendants are still represented and 

held in honor are the Bayards, Botvcv^^Ms, Benoits^ Bocquets» 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON, 



217 



Bacots, Chevaliers, Cordes, Chastaquiers, Dupr^s, Delisles, 
Duboses, Dubois, Dutarques, De la Coursili^res, Dubouxdieus, 
Fayssaux, Gaillards, Gendrons, Horrys, Guignards, Hugers, 
Legar6s, Laurens, Lausacs, Marions, Mazycqs, Manigaults, 
Mallichamps, Neuvilles, P6ronneaus, Porchers, Peyres, Ravenels, 
Saint Juliens, and Trevezants. 

As late as 1764, the South Carolina Huguenots were further 
strengthened by two hundred and twelve exiles whom their 
pastor Gilbert accompanied. The English government fur- 
nished their passage ; and vacant lands in Abbeville county 
were distributed to them. Here they soon built a town and 
named it New Bordeaux " in honor of the capital of Guienne, 
where most of them were born.'* In 1782 South Carolina num- 
bered sixteen thousand Protestants among its citizens (the whole 
number being about forty thousand), of whom the greater part 
were French. "A politeness and elegance of manners, far 
superior to those of English origin, a severe morality, an un- 
alterable charity — such were the qualities by which the refugees 
obtained the esteem of their fellow citizens. The little colony 
of French San tee became particularly noted for the exquisite 
urbanity of its founders. Thanks to the intolerance of Louis 
XIV, the French language, and with it all the perfections and 
all the refinements of French society in the seventeenth century, 
were propagated by them in these distant countries where, until 
then, the austere and solemn character of the English puritans 
had almost exclusively ruled,*' (WEtss i, p. 378). The condi- 
tions here described refer especially to New England. Along 
the coast of South Carolina puritanism found no acceptance. 
The finer courtly manners of England ruled ; the contrast 
between the English and the French was not so glaring as in 
New England. Still that contrast which always exists between 
English and French manners can be perceived even here. 

In determining the duration of the French language in South 
Carolina, the French churches will be the surest guides ; for as 
long as the people generally spoke French, or even understood 
it, the service would be conducted in that language. Certain 
families would, of course, continue to use their native tongue in 
their home-life long after its discontinuance in the church ser- 
vice ; this is more especially true in the country settlements, for 
in Charleston itself the French was discontinued from the very 
fact that no one understood the language. There is, however, 
no way of controlling information on this point except by tradi- 



2 1 8 SYL VES TER PRIMER. 

tion, a rather unsafe, though indispensable guide. I shall use 
both history and tradition in my endeavor to trace the history 
of the French language to its final disappearance. 

There were in all, four French Protestant churches. The one 
in Charleston has ever been the principal one. It is the only 
one which has survived the great changes that have taken place 
since it was first founded in 1681 or 1682. Three outside the city 
were founded and maintained for a long time ; one on the Santee, 
one at Orange Quarter, and one at St. John's Berkeley. " They 
are of the same opinion as the church at Geneva, having no differ- 
ence among them concerning punctilios of the Christian faith ; 
which union hath propagated a happy and delightful concord in 
all matters throughout the whole neighborhood, living among 
themselves as one tribe or kindred, every one making it his 
business to be assistant to the wants of his countrymen — pre- 
serving his estate and reputation with the same exactness and 
concern as he does his own ; all seeming to share in the misfor- 
tunes and in the advancement of their brethern*' (Surveyor- 
General Lawson, of North Carolina). *' The three churches 
of French Protestants outside the city of Charleston, were 
served by their pastors with great faithfulness — that upon the 
Santee, by the Rev. Pierre Robert and the Rev. Claude Phillipe 
de Richbourg ; that on Cooper River, by the Rev. Mr. La Pierre, 
and that at St. John's Berkeley, by the Rev. Florente Phillipe 
Trouillard. These three churches were merged, at length, in 
the established church of the colony. The Church of England 
became established by law in 1706. Too poor to sustain, unin- 
terruptedly, their own ordinances ; subject to great disabilities 
had they been able ; offered support for their church and minis- 
ter by the government, they gradually yielded. Practically they 
did not conform to Episcopal authority until the decease of their 
Huguenot ministers — Mr. La Pierre, in 1728 ; Mr. de Richbourg, 
in 1717, and Mr. Trouillard, in 1712*' (Dr. Vedder, 'Charles- 
ton Year Book,' 1885, p. 299-300). The dates of the discon- 
tinuance of service in the French language are much later, as 
will be shown directly. 

In the city of Charleston itself, the Huguenot church was 
more fortunate. It can show a long list of French pastors, 
extending through the eighteenth and into the first quarter of 
the nineteenth century. From 1816 to 1819, the Rev. Mr, 
Henry officiated and "preached alternately in French and 
English. Even the partial disuse of the French language by 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON 



219 



Dr. Henry gave dissatisfaction, and the calling of pastor Courlat 
marks a return to the purely French service. The attempt 
failed, in the presence of the fact that French had ceased to be 
spoken, or generally understood, especially by the children of 
the immigrants. The congregation had so diminished, that a 
resolujtion was adopted, in 1828, to re-open the church with the 
service wholly in English '* (Dr. Vedder, ibid.). — The present 
Huguenot Church probably used the French service about 
seventy years after it had ceased to be the language of the 
French Protestant churches outside the city. Sixty years have 
elapsed since its disuse in the service of the church. Tradition 
tells us, that probably none of the handful of its Huguenot 
members at the time of the change from French to English 
were able to speak or understand the French. It would, how- 
ever, not seem unreasonable to conjecture that at least a few 
must have understood it, even if they did not speak it ; else the 
French service would necessarily have been discontinued before. 
It certainly soon ceased to be spoken or understood ; for, 
according to the best information on the subject, not even the 
oldest Huguenots of Charleston ever understood or spoke it, 
and some are well on to eighty. 

The causes of the rapid disuse of the French language are 
briefly as follows : Having been so well received by the English 
king and people, and having accepted the protection of the 
British crown and grants of land in the new world, they would 
probably be influenced by a grateful sense of duty to become 
faithful subjects in every respect. The recollection of their bit- 
ter persecution in their native country would cause them to 
forget as speedily as possible anything of a distinctly national 
chJiracter. There was no inducement for them to preserve their 
mother-tongue and the children were not encouraged to speak 
French. By far the greatest reason was, however, their com- 
plete isolation. Under the circumstances it was impossible to 
maintain any relations with France. In Canada and Louisiana, 
where the conditions were exactly reversed, the native tongue is 
still spoken. State and Church also contributed to its discon- 
tinuance. The French churches surrendered their independ- 
ence " in part from the difficulty of obtaining ministers of their 
own faith ; and in part, also, from the fact that the pastors were 
provided by the zeal of the English church, their salaries paid, 
and the churches, parsonages, schoolhouses, built and kept in 
repair at the public expense ; while all these things came as a 



220 SYL VESTER PRIMER. 

heavy burden upon a people few in number and settled in a 
new country. Probably their greatest reason was the difficulty 
they encountered in their attempts to keep up the succession of 
their ministry." (Howe, * Hist, of the Presbyterian Church/ 
p. 192). The English Church gained the supremacy and was 
early acknowledged, as it were, to be the legal church of the 
province, receiving government aid. The Protestants, especially 
those of foreign birth, were at first considered aliens and dis- 
franchised unless they conformed to the established church. To 
be sure this was only temporary, but it had great influence on 
emigrants. 

Their supply of ministers was inadequate to the demand. 
Numerous applications for French ministers were sent to Eng- 
land in the hope that some of the fugitive French ministers 
there, would be induced to come, but this source soon failed. 
Therefore in 1706 the inhabitants of St. James petitioned the 
assembly '* to have their settlement made a parish, and, at the 
same time, expressed their desire of being united to the Church 
of England." This is St. James on the Santee which contained 
one hundred French families. Its pastor, Philip de Richbourg, 
died in 17 17 and was followed, in 1720, by the Rev. Mr. Ponder- 
ous, a French clergyman who was sent over by the Bishop of 
London. About 1707 and 1708, Dr. Le Jau (or Jeau) "some- 
times visited, the French settlement in Orange Quarter, St 
Dennis Parish, which had no minister, and administered the 
Lord's supper to fifty communicants. That settlement consisted 
of thirty-two families.'* *' Most of them (the Huguenots) set- 
tled in the parishes of St. Dennis and St. James, on Santee, and 
to them in their ecclesiastical capacity were extended the priv- 
ileges of the established church with a permission to perform 
all their public religious exercises in the French language, pro- 
vided they used Dr. Durel's translation of the book of common 
prayer. Those of them who settled in Charleston formed a 
church about the beginning of the eighteenth century on the 
plan of the reformed churches in France. It is rich in lands ; 
but so many of the descendants of its original founders have 
joined other churches that its present numbers are few " (Ram-; 
SAY, ii, p. 88). " During this period (i 730-1 740) the French 
churches seem to have setded quietly down, excepting the one 
in Charleston (and perhaps in some measure that in Orange 
Quarter), under English rule. The Bishop of London very 
sagaciously supplied them with a ministry oif French extraction. 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON 221 

who were proficients in the French language, and would be less 
likely to bring to their notice the change which they had made. 
The names of Le Jau, of Tustian, of Pouderous, of Varnod, of 
Tissot, of Coulet, of Du Plessis, were familiar to the French 
Huguenots; and with the influence these men exerted, may 
have done much to reconcile them to leave the customs of their 
fathers." (Howe, Ibid., p. 217). One more extract will put 
the matter in its true light. It is from Carroll's * Collections,' 
"» P- 553 (Year 1709.) " The district of Orange Quarter is a 
French settlement, but in the first division of the country into 
parishes, was part of St. Thomas's Parish ; few of the people 
attended service in the English for want of the language. The 
major portion of them usually met together in a small church 
of their own, where they generally made a pretty full congrega- 
tion, when they had a French minister amongst them; they 
were poor and unable to support their minister, and made appli- 
cation to the assembly of the province to be made a parish, and 
to have some (p. 554) publick allowance for a minister especi* 
ally ordained, who should use the liturgy of the Church of 
England, and preach to them in French. Accordingly they 
were incorporated by the name of St. Dennis, till such time as 
they should understand English. They have now ^ good 
church built about the time St. Thomas's was, and never had 
but one minister, Mr. Lapierre." 

All the information we can find on the subject points to the 
discontinuance of the French service in the country churches at 
about 1750. Tradition tends to the same conclusion. The 
names of this region still preserve their English pronunciation ; 
" in spite of refinements and improvements of Modem Society, 
the Duboses and Marions are pertinaciously called Debusk and 
Mlihrion " (Prof. F. A. Porcher). In Charleston, however, 
the pronunciation of the proper names has retained more of the 
French than of the English, as will be seen by the list later on. 

In my former article, I gave a very unsatisfactory sketch of 
the education, reading and books of the early period of the 
province. I shall now attempt to complete the sketch, including 
all the setders as far as that is possible. Here again I shall have 
to rely upon original sources and tradition. For the Huguenot 
element, tradition will be my only source of information, as 
there is no account of their literature and schools. The proba- 
bility is that they brought few books with them and maintained 
no French schools in their new home. They certainly produced 



222 SYLVESTER PRIMER. 

nothing of a literary nature after their arrival. Only a few pub- 
lic documents, mostly wills, can be found in French. I shall 
quote my authorities verbatim, as the books are rare and not 
accessible to all. In Drayton's * Memoirs,' ii, p. 358, the 
author speaks as follows of the education of this period: 
*• Before the American war, the citizen of South Carolina was 
too much prejudiced in favor of British manners, customs 
and knowledge to imagine that elsewhere than in England any- 
thing of advantage could be obtained. For reasons also, of 
state, perhaps, this prejudice was encouraged by the mother 
country, and hence the children of opulent parents were sent 
there for education, while attempts for supporting suitable sem- 
inaries of learning in this state were not sufficiendy encouraged 
and promoted.'* In the writings of Hugh S. Legare, article 
on Education, the following occurs : " Before and just after the 
Revolution, many, perhaps it would be more accurate to say 
most, of our youth of opulent families were educated at English 
schools and universities. There can be no doubt their attain- 
ments in polite literature were very far superior to those of their 
contemporaries at the North, and the standard of scholarship 
in Charleston was consequently higher than in any other city 
on the continent." 

Much has been written pro and con on the question of the 
early schools of the state. We can here neither enter into a 
partisan controversy nor give the subject a thorough and con- 
scientious investigation from a historical point of view, as both 
are foreign to our present purpose. A summary of the matter * 
will be found in Winsor's ' Narrative and Critical History of 
America ' (vol. v.), in an article by Prof. J. Rivers, and in 
Gen. McCradv's reply to Mr. McMaster in his ' History of 
the United States.' I quote from the original sources as much 
as will be necessary for information about the educational con- 
dition of tlie province and state. 

Prof. Rivers (as above, p. 303, Note) says : '* It is probable 
there were in North and South Carolina many "private tutors" 
for families or neighborhoods, though few " public schools" sup- 
ported by taxation" (1754). Ramsay (vol. ii. of his * History of 
South Carolina,* pp. 357, 362, 372, 376, 382) gives a fairer view 
of the whole system of education in the state. I give the im- 
portant part (pp. 357-8). "The corporations of these free 
schools were cherished by government. They were favored in 
taking uplands which have ever since been increasing in value. 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON, 



223 



They formed a center to which were drawn the donations and 
bequests of the charitable. From the triple source of tuition 
money, public bounty and private donations, a fund was created 
which diffused the means of education far beyond what could 
have been accomplished by uncombined exertions conducted 
without union or system. 

With the growing wealth of the province the schools became 
more numerous and co-extended with the spreading population. 
The number of individuals who could afford to maintain private 
tutors and of natives who were sent abroad for education in- 
creased in like manner. None of the British provinces in pro- 
portion to their numbers sent so many of their sons to Europe 
for education as South Carolina. (With the exception of Virginia, 
no State in the Union has obtained a greater or even an equal 
proportion of national honors. This was in some degree the 
consequence of the attention paid by the early settlers of Caro- 
lina to the liberal education of their children).*' 

In speaking of schools and colleges he says (p. 359) : "Men 
of moderate circumstances had not influence enough to carry it 
through (a bill for a college), and the rich did not need it ; for 
they disregarded the expense of sending their sons to the sem- 
inaries of Europe." 

Societies were formed which aided the cause of education by 
their influence and substantial support "Education," says 
Ramsay, p. 362, " has also been fostered in South Carolina by 
several societies as a part of a general plan of charity. The 
oldest of this class is the South Carolina Society which was 
formed about the year 1737. It pays the salary of a school- 
master and schoolmistress for the education of children of both 



sexes." 



Ramsay's general remarks on the subject of education are 
worth repeating (pp. 372-3) : " Though the state and individ- 
uals have done much to encourage education among the youth 
of Carolina, the proportion of the rising generation which is 
pressing forward with such ardent zeal for knowledge, as bids 
fair to secure them seats in the temple of fame is lamentably 
small. In genius they are not deficient, but perseverance in a 
long-continued close application to study is too often wanting. 
Many of them will not learn Greek at all. Others learn it so 
superficially that it is soon forgotten. Very few can bring their 
knowledge of either Latin or Greek classics to bear on any 
subject of conversation, or writing, seven years after they have 



224 SYLVESTEk PRIMER. 

done with school. What b thoroughly learned cannot be so 
easily forgotten. A few with little or no classical education, by 
the help of superior natural powers and an industrious course 
of English reading, have made a distinguished figure in public 
life. Their success, like the largest prizes in a lottery, inspire 
false hopes in the breasts of others who have neither the talents 
nor the industry of those whom they affect to resemble. So 
much of the precious period of youth is frequentiy spent m 
doing nothing of any value or in frivolous amusements, that too 
little is left for completing a solid education in its proper season. 
Whether this is attained or not, the pursuit of it oftener termi- 
nates under twenty, than continues beyond that period. Several 
affect to be men, and some are really fathers when they ought 
to be at school." 

On pp. 382-383, Ramsay gives a summary of the results of 
the educational efforts to the beginning of the present century 
(1810) : " In the course of the 106 years while South Carolina 
was a colony, the whole number of persons bom there who 
obtained the honors of literary degrees in colleges or universi- 
ties, as far as can be recollected, is short of twenty ; but in the 
thirty-two years of her independence one hundred of her 
native sons have acquired that distinction. There was no gram- 
mar school in South Carolina prior to 1730, except the free school 
in Charleston : from 1730 to 1776 there were no more than four 
or five, and all in or near Charleston. Since the revolution 
there are, from information, about thirty and they are daily 
increasing and extending into the remotest extremities of the 
state." 

Dr. Manigault has kindly furnished me a list of American 
students at the London law schools in the last century published 
in the English papers and copied in the Charleston News and 
Courier in January 1870. The period is from 1759 to 1786, a 
quarter of a century just before and during the revolution. It 
shows better than anything else how fashionable . it was in the 
colonies to send the sons to England for their education. The 
numbers are as follows : 

Middle Temple, total 77 ; South Carolina 39. 
Inner Temple, ** 24; ** 2. 

Lincolnsinn "15; ** 7. 

Total 116 48 

Total of French extraction from South Carolina 12; that is, 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON. 



225 



just one fourth of the whole number sent. Thus, South Carolina 
sent a little more than 41 per cent of the whole number, of 
which one fourth were of French extraction. The other 
Huguenots were educated in the (English) schools of the 
province ; for at this period none are known to have gone to 
France, and no French schools were ever supported.* After 
the revolution, in the beginning of this century, it became some- 
what fashionable to go to France for an education, but by that 
time all knowledge of French (except that learned at the school) 
had disappeared. The continuity of the mother-tongue had 
been broken with the first emigration to this country and could 
never be resumed again. 

Schools, however, are not the only means of an education, 
especially of a literary character. Libraries and books perform 
an important part in the education of a community and the 
early settlers were alive to this important fact. One of the early 
writers (cf Carroll's ' Collections,' i., p. 507) informs us " that 
the people stand not only much indebted to an ingenious book- 
seller, who introduced many of the most distinguished authors 
among them, but several of the most respectful citizens, also, 
united and formed a society for the promotion of literature, 
having obtained a charter of incorporation for that purpose. All 
the new publications in London, and many of the most valuable 
books, both ancient and modern, have been imported for the 

use of this society Their design was not confined 

to the present generation, but extended to posterity, having the 
institution of a college in view, so soon as the funds of the 
society should admit it. Newspapers were also printed for 
supplying the province with the freshest and. most useful 
intelligence of all that passed in the political and commercial 
world" (1765). Ramsay adds something of interest on this 
subject in the second volume of his * History of South Carolina,' 
p. 352 : " The Settlement of Carolina was nearly coeval with 
the institution of the Royal Society of London, and began at a 
time when Addison, Boyle, Boerhaave, Barrow, Fenelon, Hale, 
Locke, Milton, Newton, Rollin, Sydney, Sydenham, Sloan, 
Tillotson, Watts, and many sons of intellect were living and en- 
lightening the world with the beams of knowledge. Though 
few if any of the early settlers of the province were learned men, 
yet they brought with them general ideas of European literature. 



*There were private French Boarding and Day Schools and ever have been, but these 
were for the upper classes. In the public school system no provision was made for French. 



\ 



226 SYLVESTER PRIMER. 

The subsequent improvements in the old world were soon 
transmitted to the new, and by the noble art of printing ex- 
tensively diffused." In the year 1700 a law passed 

"for securing the provincial library of Charleston." 

The Church of England also aided in the promotion of 
education by establishing libraries throughout the state. 
*' Commissioner Bray and his associates founded several Provin- 
cial and Parochial Libraries ; and the venerable society for the 
propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts sent to every Parish 
Church in the Colonies, a library for the use of the ministry. 

The advantage resulting from Parochial Libraries would not 
be confined to the Clergy, but would extend equally to' the 
people." 

It will be seen from the above that the relations between the 
province t)f South Carolina and the mother-country were far 
more intimate than those of the other provinces. The children, 
as a rule, spent years in England while pursuing their studies ; 
the Church established by the Proprietors and people was 
under the Bishop of London, and the ministers came from 
England ; libraries were founded by the church and by private 
enterprise, and the favorite books were those imported from 
England. We, however, see no signs of an early provincial 
literature comparable with that of New England. The people 
lived as in England, thought as in England, were thoroughly 
English in every respect. But the French element had an in- 
fluence upon the education and manners of the province. Noted 
for their sobriety and orderly habits, for their industry and ap- 
plication to their pursuits, for their love of religious freedom and 
tolerance in general, for their intellectual superiority over their 
countrymen of the Catholic faith, they brought with them very 
desirable qualities for the upbuilding of the new state. Their 
influence is seen in the industrial progress of the state, in the 
formation and development of the new government, in the social 
life of the people. Their influence on the schools, the formation 
of libraries, the circulation of books, the literary development of 
the young state must have been equally felt and equally benefi- 
cial, whether we can trace that influence as clearly and as 
distinctly as in the politicial, industrial and social history of the 
state. The histories are silent on the subject of Huguenot 
schools, libraries, books and intellectual pursuits and accomplish- 
ments, so that we are forced to rely on tradition and information 
gathered from older people and accounts of the Huguenots in 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON, 



227 



other parts of the world. From these sources we can collect 
information enough to lead us to conclude that they were active 
in developing the school system of their chosen state and 
fostered its literary growth. But they fostered the English 
language and discarded their own as soon as possible ; however, 
it could not disappear without leaving some sign of its former 
presence, though the difficulty of tracing back the vestiges of 
that presence will be very great 

The influence of the Huguenot element upon the pronuncia- 
tion of Charleston can be detected in two ways. In the first 
place a careful comparison of the Huguenot proper names and 
their present pronunciation with their earlier pronunciation, as 
near as that can be determined after so long a time, will show the 
mutual influence of the Huguenot and English pronunciations 
upon each other. Secondly, a careful comparison of the vowel 
and consonant sounds of the French and English of that early 
period and a careful investigation of the historical development 
of the same, will show a like mutual influence upon the final 
pronunciation of Charleston. Early documents of both 
languages, with the approximate pronunciation in each case, 
must form the basis of this investigation. Here we shall give 
only the French documents, reserving the early English for a 
revision of our former article. 

Fortunately there exists a list of the Huguenot names drawn 
up in the year 1697 (or thereabout) from which we shall take 
such names for our comparison as are still in existence. The 
following list comprises enough for our present purpose : 




Bacot« 

Benoist 

Benoit 

Bonneau 

Bonell 

Bonetheu 

Bounetheau 

Bordeau 



Bako (or 6) 
'Bentie? 
As above 
B£7no (or e6 ?)« 
B^nel 
B(?neteu 
Boneto (or e6 ?) 
B(?rdo (or e6 ?) 



Prrsbnt Pron. 



Bakot 



B^no 
B^nel 
B^ne^o 
As aDove 
B^rdo 



MODIPICATIONS. 



Now Bennet ? 
As above 

B6nel 



z The accent is the same as in French unless otherwise indicated. Swbbt^s Revised 
Romic is used. 

a Thurot (ii, p. 749) says '^ Dans la terminaison «au IV feminin se fit entendre long- 
temps, mais on n'entendait plus que o dans la plupart des mots." But 

the pronunciation of Beaufort and Beaufain (Beufort, Beufain) would lead to the in- 
ference that -tau was pronounced {jtb) by the French Huguenots who settled here. 



228 



SYLVESTER PRIMER. 



NAME. 



Boyd 

Carriere 

Carrcrc 

Collin 

Collins 

Cordes 

Couturier 

Couterier 

De Hay (s) 

De Leiselin 

De Saussure 

Deveaux 

Douxsaint 

Dubois 

Dubosc (or q) 

Dubose 

Dupont 

Dupree 

Dutarque 

Gabriel (le) 

Gaillard 

Gendron 

Girardeau 

Gourdin (ain) 

Guerard 

Guirri (Guerry) 

Horry 

Hueer 

La Roche 

Laurens 

Legar^ 

Manigault 

Marie 

Marion 

Mellichamp 

Mercier 

Mouzon 

Neufville 

Normand 

Peronneau 

Pereneau 

Pe^re 

Pnoleau 

Poinset (te) 

Porcher 

Postell 

Foyas 

Ravenel 

St. Julien 

Simons 

Tousiger 

Trezevant 



Approx. Ear. Fr. Pr. 



Boid 

Karie (r) 

Karer 

Kolaeq 

As above 

Kord 

Kutyrie (r) 

Kuterie (r) 

Deai? 

Deleizaeq 

Desosyr 

Devo (or e6 ?) 

Dusaeq 

Dybtie? 

Dybosk ? 

Dyboz 

Dypoq 

Dypre 

Dytark 

Gabriel (1) 

Gaijar 

Zhaqdroq 

Zhirardo (or e6 ?) 

Gurdaeq 

Gerar 

Geri 

Hon 

Hyzhe (r) 

La Rosh 

L^raq 

Legare 

Manigo 

Mari 

Marioq 

Melishaq 

Mersie (r) 

Muzoq 

Nevil 

N^rmaq 

^exovio (or e6 ?) 

P^eno (or e6 ?) 

Perr 

Priolo (or e6 ?) 

Poaeqset 

P^rshe (r) 

P^tel 

Ptieya? 

Ravenel 

Saeqzhyliaq 

Simog 

Tusizne (r) 

Trezevaq 



Prbsbnt Pron. 



Boid 

Karir 

As above 

Kolins 

As above 

Kords 

Kutrtr 

As above 

Diheiz 

Del^slin ? 

D^asur 

Devo 

Diuasenta 

Diu*boz 

Diu boz 

As above 

Diuapont 

Diuapri 

Diuatart 

Gebriel 

Geljard 

Dzh^ndAn 

Dzherido 

Gurdain 

Gerard 

Geri 

On 

Tudzhi 

Larotsh 

Lorens 

Legri 

Manigo 

Mdri (Fr.) 

M^friAn 

Melishamp 

Marsir (a =« 

in sir) 
Miujznn 
Nev/1 
Nefrmand 
P^r^no 
As above 
P^r 
Pr^Io 
Poinset 
P£7rshe 
P^tel 
Pai£7s 
Ravenel 
S/nt dy/uaUn 
StmAns 
Tdsidjer 
Tr^zvAnt 



Modifications. 



Karer ? 



Desasor (vul.) 

D«vo 

Daksent (a=» in buf) 

Dibask fa=« in but) 



Diuapre 



Zhaqdroq 
Zher^rdo (La.) 
Gridain? (vul.) 
Gered, Geret 

Hon? 



M^riAn 



Marsr (a=t in Sir) 



Pr^lr? (vul.) 



Ravnel 



Tatshi ? (a=tt in but) 



a Thurot (it, p. 749). Cf. note a p. aay. 

3 The sign (u*) represents the sound (m) accompanied by a slight ranish. 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON, 



229 



It will be seen that with few exceptions the proper names 
have retained their French forms, though the pronunciation has 
been modified in many cases by time and contact with the 
English. They are still, however, to all intents and purposes 
French. Here we shall call attention to only a few peculiarities, 
as the influence of the French vowels and consonants will best 
be considered after the French extracts from the public docu- 
ments. The place of the French accent is occasionly changed ; 
compare B6netheau (Fr. Boneth6au), C611ins (Fr. Collins), D6 
Saussure (Fr. De Sausstire), Girardeau (Fr. Girard6au), M^rie 
(Fr. Mari^), Mellichamp (Fr. Mellichdmp), Prioleau (Fr. Prio- 
l^au), P6yas (Fr. Poyds), Simons (Fr. Sim6ns), Tr^zevant (Fr. 
Trezev^nt). In all, less than a dozen out of over sixty — a very 
small proportion. The changes in the vowels and consonants 
have not been so great as we might have expected when we 
consider the influence brought to bear on them. A few trans- 
formations surprise us. Compare Couturier (Kutrir), De Saus- 
sure (D6sosur), Douxsaint (Diu^sent, or Ddksent), Gourdin 
(Gurdain), Huger (Judzhi), Legar6 (Legri), Poyas (Pdijos). 

The French documents consist of wills and contracts found in 
the city archives. They all belong to the last decade of the 
fifteenth century and the first decade of the nineteenth and bear 
witness of having been written by the persons themselves. 
There are others which seem to have been written by lawyers, 
but it was deemed best to use those drawn up by the persons 
themselves, as containing the language of the people. 

Will of Pierre Bertrand, dated the 8th of Sept., 1692 : 

Au Nom De Dieu 

Moy Pierre Bertrand natiue de St Martin en L'isle de R^ au Roy- 
aume de France 2i%€ de uing^t quatre ans ou enuiront Estant au- Lit 
malade — Mais Sin Desprit et dentendement et Sachant quil ny a rien 
plus certain que La Mort Je me suis resolu a faire men testament et 
dernier uollant^ Comme ifsensuit* 

Premi^rement Je remercie dieu de mauior fait naitre dans la uerit- 
able religione Reform^^ et Luy demande pardon de tous mes peches 
au non et par le meritte de la mort et passion et resurection de Nos- 
tre Seigneur, Jesus christ le priant de Nentrer pas en conte Ny en 
Jugement auecq moy mais me faire grace et Misericorde et me faire 
part de son paradis. 

Will of Pierre Perdriau, dated Nov. 26th, 1692: 

Au Nom du pere, du fils, et du St Esprit, Amen. 

Jay Pierre Perdriau natif de la Rochelle au royaume de France, 
'tant de present en Caroline detenu au lit de maladie depuis 6 ou 7 
jours; mais par la grace de Dieu sain desprit, memoire, jugement 
et entendement et considerant quil ny a rien de plus certain que la 



230 



SYLVESTER PRIMER, 



mort ny de plus incertain que Theure dycelle ne voullant decedder 
intestat ny sans auoir fait mettre ma demiere volenti par 6crit. jay 
fait ^crire mon present testament et ordonnance de demiere volenti 
sans y auoir €x.€ induit, forc^, ny contraint par qui que se soit comme 
sensuit. 

Will of Arnaud Brunau, dated Dec. 30th, 1692: 

Je Arnaud Brunau Escuyer S. de la Chabociere ^tant de present en 
Caroline en Tamerique en nostre habitation de Ouanthee proche 
Jemston sur la riuiere de Santi auquel lieu d'ouenthee nous nous 
sommes establis Paul Bruneau Esquyer Sieur de Riuedoux mon fils 
et Henry Bruneau mon petit fils et moy et ou depuis plus de quatre 
ans nous faisons nostre residence sachant quil nous faut tous mourir 
et quil nest rien de si certain aue Theure de la mort, me trouuant 
dautant plus oblige a disposer de mes affaires quil y a trois ans ou 
enuiron que le fus attaque dun catherre dont je pens^ mourir et qui 
ma laisse un p;rand engourdissement sur toute la partie gauche de 
mon corps qui men a fort afoibly tous les membres me trouuant pour- 
tant graces a dieu dans une assez bonne disposition de mon corps et 
seint de mon Esprit. 

Agreement between Pierre Robert and son (Swiss), dated 
Jan. 25th, 1 701. 

Sorte que ch^cun de nous separ^ment et sans le consentiment de 
I'autre, ne pourra vendre ny engager sa part des terres, ny des Es- 
claves, mais nous pourrons d'un consentement mutuel, lorsque nous 
jugerons ^ propos, vendre conjointement mon dit fils et moy, ou le 
dit fonds de terre ou les Esclaves, ou partie d'eux. 

In discussing the influence of the French element upon the 
English pronunciation of Charleston we must remember that the 
Huguenots left France at the period when the fluctuations 
between the different vowels (a and e, and ou, eu and au, o 
and e) had nearly ceased. There were at that time three dis- 
tinct pronunciations: the pure pronunciation of the cultured 
people and scholars, in a certain measure theoretical ; both the 
second and third belong to the so-called vulgar language ; the 
second was that used in reading poetry and in public discourses, 
and the third was the every -day language of the common 
people. The Huguenots belonged to the artisan class and must 
have brought with them to South Carolina the second and third 
grades. Their ministers and the educated spoke in all proba- 
bility the more cultured of these ; that is, the second, or that 
used in poetry and public discourses. — A short summary of 
these sounds will form a basis for our investigation ; we shall treat 
the sounds here in the same order (that is, i, e, a, A, o, u, 6, ii) as 
in our former article (cf * Trans. Mod. Lang. Ass.,' vol iii., p. 88). 

The pronunciation of the vowels (i) is very narrow. It ex- 
changes with (e), but in the cultured language, however, there 
was no exchange. — Tonic ^, whatever its origin, in the language 



HUGUENOT ELEAfENT IN CHARLESTON. 231 

of the cultured class as well as of the vulgar, was pronounced 
wide, even very wide, consequently near a, whenever it was 
followed by a consonant pronounced in the same syllable. 
*' The German ^ in der, would be the back-upper, and probably 
also the English a of dare, the French I oiplre, aime, the fronts 
lower. The ^ of the sixteenth century was likewise the lower " 
(cf. Lang, * Der vocalische Lautstand,' p. 20). But words in 
-ere, especially /^r^, mlre.fr'^re, and words in 'ege\ as, college, 
privilege, continued to be pronounced with an ^-ferm6, that is, 
narrow. 

The a had its two sounds of wide a (patte^ mal) and narrow a 
(J>&ie, tndle). Even the narrow (grave Thurot calls it) retain- 
ed quite a clear (high) sound and was different from the darker 
(deep) German a. Generally it was very wide. 

The digraph ati probably had the sound of d, and may have 
fluctuated as the English gaunt, etc. It exchanges with o (d 
wide? dovci^. pauvre below), also with a. 

There were two ^-sounds, wide and and narrow : d, 6, 

The «-sound (jni) was simple u and no longer a diphthong, 
but frequently exchanged with ; as, chose or chouse, etc. 

We need mention only one peculiarity of the consonants, the 
palatalization of c and g before /, e, eu (see below). 

It is always a difficult question to attempt to trace the mutual 
influence which two languages may have exerted upon each 
other, as it is often uncertain just what the native development 
would have been without the aid of foreign influence. This is 
especially true of sounds. Similar causes may have produced 
similar effects independently in each language ; or mutual 
influence, arising from the contact of the sounds of each, 
especially if the two languages belong to different branches, as 
the French and the English. The influence of the former upon 
the development of the vowel system of the latter, has been 
very great, though difficult to analyse, as the two streams flowed 
together at such an early date that it would now be impossible 
to say in most instances whether Romance or Teutonic influences 
had been most active in producing certain changes. Still much 
light might be thrown on the subject by a thorough investiga- 
tion of the mutual influence of the two elements upon each other. 

It is customary to ascribe Romance influence to the introduc- 
tion of Romance words at four various periods: i. the occupa- 
tion of Britain by the Romans ; 2. the conversion of England to 
the Christian Religion ; 3. the Norman Conquest ; 4. the Revival 



232 



SYLVESTER PRIMER, 



of Learning. The real sway of the French tongue, during which 
it exerted its greatest influence upon the language, forms, ac- 
cording to excellent authority, two periods : the first comprises 
the time of the Norman Conquest, when French was really at 
home in England, to the loss of Normandy ; the second, when 
the French was a foreign language in England, extends from the 
loss of Normandy to the end of the reign of Edward III. The 
first is often called the Norman, the second the French, period. 
But we are far from knowing at the present date the exact truth 
in regard to the mixture and development of the two languages. 
The frequent and intimate intercourse of the two nations has led 
to a peculiar development of the English vowel system and to 
irregular changes in English pronunciation. It is, therefore, 
doubly difficult to trace out the Huguenot influence upon the 
pronunciation of Charleston. In the first place, we have the un- 
interrupted flow for centuries of Romance elements into Eng- 
land. Changes in certain directions appeared in England. The 
language was transplanted here during the process of change 
and either became permanent, or, from various influences, was 
again subject to change. The French Huguenot element brought 
with it the same influences which had modified the English in 
England. To which influence, if to either, is the present pro- 
nunciation of Charleston due ? It is not always possible to tell. 
We know approximately the period and can follow up the 
changes from that time to this. Wherever the pronunciation of 
Charleston shows peculiarities, we must either trace them back 
to the English of the time of the first settlement here, or account 
for them from outside influence. If we find similarities between 
the present pronunciation of Charleston and the Huguenot pro- 
nunciation of the time of their first settlement here, it will be 
prima-facie evidence of influence, though not positive evidence ; 
for the development of sounds is often such as to defy explana- 
tion by any known laws. Bearing this in mind, let us examine 
the pronunciation of Charleston in order to discover whether the 
Huguenot element has had any influence upon it. 

In our comments on the vowel i (ibid. 88) we mentioned the 
the exchange of i for e in t/ (in Charleston ef). The proper 
name Prioleau is here commonly pronounced Preio. In the 
sixteenth century these vowels were interchangeable in France 
and this phenomenon did not disappear altogether in the seven- 
teenth century. However, it is not an uncommon phenomenon 
as Ellis remarks (ibid. 99). TYi^ cVvaxv^^ \v^x^ \& -^xoVi^VA^ 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON, 



233 



due to that tendency in the Charleston pronunciation to retain 
the older English pronunciation, though the influence of the 
French may have helped to strengthen that tendency. 

The peculiar pronunciation of words like there^ tare^ P^re^ 
etc. (p. 88) corresponds quite well to that of the French of the 
sixteenth century (see above). Thurot (vol. ii, p. 748) remarks 
that in the seventeenth century words in -ere^ especially pirCy 
mlre.frlre, and words in -ege ; as, college, privilege ^ continued 
to be pronounced with ^-ferm€. But in the last years of the 
seventeenth and the first years of the eighteenth centuries this 
^ oi p^re, m^re./r^re, college, privilege, became open (?) as at 
present. The sound which both the English and Huguenots 
brought with them was nearly alike, so that the mutual influence 
of the two languages (the surroundings of the vowel being 
nearly the same) would tend to retain the sound in the present 
pronunciation. The sound of a is diflicult to describe. The 
Italian a sounds quite different from the Portuguese, French, 
English, or German a. What is the peculiar shade in each of 
these sounds? The Danish and English are inclined to the 
clear (higher) sound (c£ Storm, * Eng. Philol.,' p. 34ff.)» the 
German to the deeper sound. Storm (ibid.) regards the French 
d in Idche, p&ie (low-back) as the nomal a. But this A is 
rather the exception in France ; the short, clear French a (a) is 
the rule. The Scotch a in father comes near the French A in 
pdie^ but is probably less deep (cf. Storm, ibid.), while the 
English a in father (mid -back) approaches the palatal sound 
(ae). Sweet (*Hist of Engl. Sounds/ p. 210) says the French 
a of the sixteenth century points to a sound between Swedish 
mat and Eng. father on the one side, and Eng. man on the 
other ; that is, to Dan. Mane, or, more probably, to Eng. man, 
a sound which was fully established in the next century. In 
Charleston the tendency is rather to this last sound ; as in man, 
cat, sad. No Charlestonian would make the mistake indicated 
by Thackeray (' Miscell.' i, 58) in his nang-tang-paw (n*en 
tends pas), but would say nang-tang-pd^ (a as in man). Perhaps 
the tendency to this clearer sound may be in a measure due to 
the influence of this (higher) French sound brought over by 
the Huguenots ; it may have strengthened a tendency already 
existing. 

The D (A or a**) -sound is common enough in Charleston but 
has never affected words like gaunt, haunt, jaunt, daunt, avaunt, 
aunt, vaunt, haunch, launch, pauch, staunch, etc., (c£ grange, 



234 



SYLVESTER PRIMER. 



strange^ ample, grants chanty which were spelled with an u in 
M. E. and pronounced like those just given). According to 
TEN Brink (* Chaucers Sprache und Verskunst, p. 50) this 
a« (^") "denotes the nasalized a, or better the sound which 
represents in M. E. the Romance nasal a. It may have been a 
darker a, as the writing au, often interchanging with a, 
seems to indicate. This sound is inseparable from lengthening 
(Dehnung), since au never appears before nk, as in frank. It 
has its place before mb, ng, nc, nt^ It is an evident attempt to 
represent the nasal pronunciation of the Anglonorman nasal 
vowel and vonJagemann (* Trans, of Amer. Philol. Ass.,' vol. 
XV, p. 83) thinks that " this representation (by au) gives us a 
clue to the phonetic nature of the nasalization : aun must have 
been pronounced somewhat like the Portuguese ao, which is an 
a -sound followed by a nasal, and not like the French an, which 
is an a-sound itself nasalized. In later English the original 
sound gradually wore down to a simple long a, as in Mod. E. 
vaunty These words had the D-sound in England in the seven- 
teenth century, but had not altogether discarded the (a)-sound. 
The clearer {a) changed to ae (as in man), but it is long in 
Charleston. 

Turning to the French of the sixteenth century we find 
(Thurot, i, p. 425) that the pronunciation of ai^ long fluctuated 
between ao (both vowels pronounced) and long o (mid-back- 
n. r.), which latter finally prevailed. However, the ancient pro- 
nunciation (ibid., 429) of the diphthong au existed in Normandy 
and the south. According to Beza (1534) the Normans still 
pronounced distinctly the a and the o in one and the same sylla- 
ble, autani, as if it were aotant (cf. Hindret, who makes them 
s2Ly fra-otide iox fraude, ca-ouse for cause, cha-oud for chaud). 
But this au interchanged in French with o (mid-mixed-w.-r. ?) 
and a in some words. We find pauvre, pavre and pouvre, but 
see later. Perhaps the word balm and those mentioned on p. 
91, ibid., may be in part explained through Huguenot influence. 
On p. 433, vol. i, Thurot gives bauhme, bame, ambamis, 
bausme, embasmer, embasme, baume, embaume, basme^ baulme, 
etc. The forms bame, ambamis, embasmer, embasme, basme, 
indicate an a-sound as one pronunciation of these words. From 
what has already been said of the French a of this period 
(sixteenth century), we can assume the lighter a-sound (nearly 
as in man). The M. E. form is baume, or batvme (Chaucer), 
dauTHf tame, basme^ balsme. The form bame is in 'Ancrcn 



HUG UENO T ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON. 235 

Riwle/ p. 104. Psalm has the same history. Thurot i, 
page 440, gives psalme^ psealme^ pseaulmey siaumes, 
Anglo-Saxon has sealm and the M. E. probably fluctuated like 
balm, though I have no sources to look it up. The fluctuations 
were the same in both languages and they undoubtedly mutually 
influenced each other. Both sounds (o, a) were probably 
brought over froiy England. But the lighter a of the French 
must have contributed to the establishment of <^ (long sound of 
a in man) in all these words in Charleston. In modem French 
this sound has become o\ in English, it has divided intoo, a, and 
ae, as we have already seen. 

On p. 92, ibid., it is stated that " the word poor sometimes re- 
ceived the sound (poor) instead of (puur)." In the sixteenth 
century the French shows a variety of spellings : povre, pauvre, 
pouvre, paouvrCy poure.pauure (cf. Thurot, i., p. 430). Inas- 
much as au exchanges with ^, and a, in some words, and perhaps 
with ou, «, eu in a few others, we may infer from the various 
spellings oipauvre that usagt was divided between ao (ao), a-ou 
(au), (6 ?), and ou (u). In Chaucer, we find povre and 
poure (not in rhyme), perhaps from pQvre (p6vr), the transi- 
tional form of O. Fr. povre (cf. above). The most that can be 
said is, that this sound must have been brought over from Eng- 
land and was probably prevaleat diaie in the sixteenth century 
(cf. Ellis, 97). It is also quite probable that the French 
brought over this same pronunciation of (p6vr). Compare the 
present pronunciation by some of the French Creoles of Louisi- 
ana; chose (sh6z), rose (rbz) y patifvre (pdvr). The preservation 
of this occasional pronunciation (pddr) until now, is possibly due 
to Huguenot influence and partiy to the conservative spirit of 
Charleston. 

Exception has been taken to the pronunciation I have indi- 
cated (p. 93) for book. There the statement was made, that 
" that shade of the tt-sound heard in /«/, book^ pull^ etc., has 
passed entirely over to its sound in btU ; hence the good majority 
of Charlestonians pronounce these words pgt, etc., or is it, per- 
haps, the close Scotch u in come^ up, Sweet's low-back-narrow ?** 
The statement is in the main right, though the full but-sownA is 
confined to the lower classes. The elegant pronunciation has 
stopped a shade short of but, as we shall presendy see. 

Let us begin with the vowel sound heard in but ; Sweet calls 
it mid-back-narrow and Sievers describes it as " differing from 
the so-called pure Italian a and the a of the German stage only 



236 SYL VESTER PRIMER, 

by stronger arching of the back tongue toward the soft palate.*' 
It is between Italian a in cane and French tu in leur (cf. 
Trautmann, p. i6o, 40); Ellis calls it an unrounded leur. 
This sound is peculiar to the English and is a younger (though 
according to Holthaus quite old) acquisition first mentioned 
by Wallis (1653), though it must be older than that. "The 
first mediate testimony of its appearance, or better, its rise, is 
found in the substitution of o in sane^ ander^ wonie, wolf, etc., 
for sune, under, tuunie, wulf, etc., in the MSS. of the 13th 

century To all appearances the projection of the 

lips in uttering the tt-sound was omitted, so that Sweet's high- 
back-narrow arose (Gaelic laogK) ; this became later the present 
*«/-sound*' (Trautmann, p. 164). Ellis (175) calls it "a 
modem encroachment" He adds that "in general the long 
Saxon (jDo), which first became (uu) and then fell to (u), or («), 
has resisted the further change into (p)." Generally this sound 
reverts back to the radical Anglo-Saxon u and the change from 
uto o explains in a certain measure the present sound of this u 
approaching o. It is the u deprived of its labial character, but 
at the same time accompanied by the enlargement of the angle 
of the jaws, which latter act is immediately connected with the 
sinking of the tongue, or in other words (u) is high-back-n.-r. 
and (a) is mid-back-n. If Trautmann's theory be accepted 
{Anglia iv, toff. ; also i, 588-9), then there is a certain inner 
relation between the series of sounds to which the u in but 
belongs and the series u, o, o ; the latter he describes as arising 
when we join the lip-position of «, d, 6 to the tongue-position of 
I, ?, i. We have already seen that the u in bul is the unrounded 
leur, so that there seems at all events to be a certain relation 
both of articulation and sound existing between these sounds. 

If we revert to Palsgrave's pronunciation, we shall find that 
his ^ in gost, nose, boke, does not mean the French unaccented 
^-feminine, but rather the o in ionge, socke (jncche'), mocke, etc., 
therefore represents a sound between the u in but and the sound 
of the Gaelic Icufgh (Sweet's high-back-narrow \ ; cf. Holt- 
haus, Anglia, viii, 140). Sweet's second Word-list (* Hist of 
Sounds,' 1888, p. 37 3f) proves that out of one hundred and 
forty words with the modem sound of u in but, seventy-five are 
fi-qm old Ut seventeen are from old A, sixteen from old S, eleven 
fi-om old y, six fi-om old o, four fi-om old d, and the rest scatter- 
ing between ^, <^, ey, i, d, I, eo, &. Thus, over one half are re-^ 
flections of words in u. The quesdotv tv^.tMx^l!kY arises why the 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON. 



237 



U'Sonnd. was abandoned and the ^/-sound received into its 
place, and through what sound did it pass in its transiton from 
(u) to (a). The age of the f^-sound is also a question of interest. 
We will begin with the 2^-sound. 

The normal u-soxiviA is not* a favorite in modern English. In 
uttering it, the lips are less protruded than in German and the 
sound is less rounded. There is also a broadening of the body 
of the tongue which hinders the formation of the reed-shaped 
opening of the mouth necessary for producing an intensive 
normal (u) ; the massing of the tongue in the opening at the 
back palate checks the formation of the most intensive (i) possi- 
ble. This explains in a measure the lack of the pure normal 
(u)-and (i)-sounds in English. The exchange of u and o in the 
transition period from Old to Middle English indicates that the 
real sound was midway between (ji) and (ji)\ hence Traut- 
mann's (<?)), a tolerably dull vowel between the u in Imi and the 
laogh \ that is, vacillating between both. Both incline to the «- 
and ^'-sounds, though more unrounded ; o was between the Ger-. 
man (back) a in Vaier and the open ^'-sound, that is, already near 
the u in buL — u was discarding the rounding of the lips, that is, 
changing to laogh. Holthaus (ibid., 141) conjectures that this 
process began in the twelfth century. The passage was then 
from (u), high-back-narrow-round, through (ii, as in Norweg. 
hus) to (a) mid-back-narrow; therefore a passage from the 
articulation farthest back to one uniting the lip-protruding 
(rounding) of u and o to the tongue-articulations of the ^-and 
/-sounds and bearing a close relation to the u- and ^^'-sounds. 
Any obstruction in producing the u which should tend to change 
the place of the articulation fiauther lingual, would account for the 
transition. The Scandinavian u lies between (u) and (y), the 
Swedish nearer (y) than the Norwegian, and essentially identical 
or at least similar to Fr. u in lui (cf. Storm, 69). But there is 
also something of the ^-element in the sound, so that there must 
have been an influence at work which tended to produce this 
effect The ^'-sound, to which our ^^/-series inclines has in 
general the tongue-position of the e- and the lip-position of the 
^-sounds. In other words, there has been a gradual approach 
from the lowest towards the highest vowel and at the same time 
an approach of the o- and f-positions. 

Again we ask what occasioned this change ? May it not be con- 
sonant influence ? The surrounding consonants seem to have 
played some part in the sound-change. The n follows oftener 



238 SYLVESTER PRIMER. 

than any other letter, fifty times ; s twenty-one, m fourteen, / ten, 
/ eight, c (or k) eight, d six,/ six, b and r five, and the rest are 
scattering between /, A, g (afterwards tch or/). The conso- 
nants preceding the vowel are more varied : / (simply or in 
combinations) occurs fifteen times, r (simply or in combinations) 
fourteen, s eleven, m ten, b nine, h nine, d seven, c six, n five, 
sh five, / five, si four, and other consonants less frequently ; we 
find besides M, w, sw, /, g^ y^ p. Six times we have an initial 
vowel. According to the above, n follows the vowel fifty times, 
and precedes five ; s follows twenty -one, precedes eleven ; w fol- 
lows fourteen, precedes ten ; / follows ten, precedes nine ; f fol- 
lows eight, precedes but once ; c (or k) follows eight, precedes 
six ; d follows six, precedes seven ; b follows five, precedes nine ; 
r follows five, precedes fourteen; / follows three, precedes 
fifteen ; h follows two, preceded nine ; sh follows three, precedes 
five ; p follows six, precedes four. 

It is admitted that those consonants which have a relationship 
of articulation with certain voweb modify the vowel sound. In 
estimating the effect produced upon the vowel, both the post- 
and pre-consonants must be considered. The most prominent 
post-consonants are «, j, w, /, /, c {k), d, p, etc., or those 
inclined to coronal and dorsal (labial) articulation. The most 
prominent pre-consonants are j, w, ^, </, /, A, r, sh, etc., partly 
inclining to coronal and pardy to dorsal and labial articulation. 

Some of the most common words are sariy ion, won, come, 
such, honey, love, tongue, etc. The Anglo-Saxon forms are sunu, 
tunne, gezvunnen, cuman, sunken, hunig, iunge, lufian, etc. 
Most of the consonants have a strong inclination to dorsal 
(coronal) or labial (labio-dental and bilabial) articulation. Both 
labial and dorsal consonants readily assume the distinctive char- 
acter of the accompanying vowel and are, at the same time, liable 
to color or obscure it. That is, the vowel easily loses its dis- 
tinctive character and assumes the nature of a *' mixed vowel." 
The " mixed vowel," which we know was between u and o, 
since these characters exchanged, stands in the good majority 
of cases (that is, in words now having the sound of « in but ) 
between consonants with a dorsal element in their articulation, or 
labial and dorsal, and hence become subject to their influence. 
This obscuration is more liable to take place in unaccented syl- 
lables where the vowel is surrounded by consonants with dorsal 
or labial articulation, but even accented vowels are also obscured. 
It has already been observed {Anglia v\\, 218) that the labials 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON. 



239 



fn,f{y), change Anglo-Saxon A from (au) to (a); compare 
sc^m^ scum, pUma, thumbs dUfe, dorve, etc. 

As we see, these are the vary changes which we have consid- 
ered necessary to produce our (a)-sound when starting from au, 
«, or 0, Most of these consonants have a dorsal element and 
their peculiar English pronunciation intensifies their effect. For 
instance, «, m are post-coronal-alveolar and at the same time 
antedental -palatal, classed under supradental (that is, coronal- 
alveolar, or dorsal -alveolar) by Si E vers ; 5, z, {sh f) are post- 
coronal-alveolar ; /, dypdLTQ the same as n, m, that is, postdental or 
interdental (coronal articulation) ; g, k, are however formed on 
the middle of the soft palate» though k* (g»; are farther forward, 
perhaps guttural-dorsal ; /and w are labiodentals and d, p, m are 
bilabials; the English / is alveolar and the r is supradental. 
The influence of most of these consonants, if exerted at all, 
would be to raise the u towards the ^-position and at the same 
time to change it more to the i-position. They probably exerted 
such an influence, though it is difficult to say positively just 
what it was, or whether other unknown influences were not also 
at work. Scandinavian influence of u in hus may have helped. 
It is also probable that the O. E. u of the twelfth century " was 
spoken with deeper tongue-position, perha()s = o (schon, eux), 
at the same time the original * unrounded to (a, as in laogK), or 
already to <p "(Holthaus, Anglia, viii, 141). " It is difficult to 
say," he continues p. 143, " when long o assumed the sound 
<p{^) in certain words. Some words had early lost their length 
and turned immediately with short to ^, and others may have 
entered upon this way by analogy, or through some other 
influences." 

There are sixteen examples of long o becoming (a) : mdiher, 
brSiher, tSh {tough), gl6f (^glove), m6naih,g{ime {gum), rSihar, 
(rudder), Jldd, blSd, dSm, Sihar, mdsie (but cf. music), geiidh 
(enough), wudurdfe (wwdruff"), gedSn (done), mdnandaeg 
(monday). The consonant-complex here is the same as above 
and it only needed a shortening of the vowel to produce the 
same result. Holthaus' conjecture is probably the correct 
one, as we find the same shortening of a long vowel in book, 
look, foot, etc. 

The question now arises whether the French exerted any 
influence on the production of this (a)-sound. Ellis and 
Sweet say yes, but others are inclined to disbelieve it. The 
tendency of the English, as we haVe already mentioned, is to 
the deeper, duller, fuller sounds, du^ X.o >ii't diSfex^Twcfc vek. 



240 SYL VESTER PRIMER. 

composition and position of the mouth and throat Sievers 
(see above) justly remarks that the character of the sounds of 
the English vocalism rests essentially on the slight participation 
of the lips in their formation. The tip of the tongue inclines 
away from the lower front teeth upward, tendencies which have 
led to divergencies in the final result of this movement from u 
and towards u and o. 

The Latin 6 and a passed into French ^-ferm6. But in the 
accented and free syllable this sound passed into French eu ; as, 
HORAM heure, solum seuL " The o of ani6r^ raison was prob- 
ably in its origin a diphthong holding a position midway between 
and OM and rhyming neither with u coming from Latin A, nor 
with o coming from Latin o or au. Very early this o became 
euj calorem gave chaleur\ saparem^ saveur ; nodum, noeud** 
(Bartsch, * Langue et Litt^rature Fran9aises/ p. 21). The 
development of the two sounds (French eu and English u in 
but) has a certain similarity and a certain disparity. The 
deeper sounds of the English may have become clearer than 
they otherwise would have been, had it not been for the contact 
with the French. But it turned to the unrounded (a), while the 
French has the rounded tu (Jeur). The two languages may 
have met when the development of this sound in both was nearly 
at the same stage. 

Even this theory would seem to contradict itself, as the mod- 
ern French eu comes mostly from the long or short Latin o 
(DiEZ, pp. 132, 133, 159; cf. Thurot i, p. 449 ff. for other 
sources) and none of these words which have developed the eu 
in modern French have the (a) in English (but compare later 
on for O. French). The Romance words with the (a)-sound in 
modern English have various sounds in modem French, but 
never eu, A careful comparison of the vocabularies of the two 
languages with a view to the classification of the sources 
of the various sounds which have produced (a) in mod- 
ern English, showing their Latin origin and the French sounds 
now represented, is very desirable, but would lead me too far 
from my present subject. In lieu of this, I have carefully com- 
pared the vocabulary added to Dietrich Behrens' " Beitrage 
zur Geschichte der Franzosischen Sprache in England," with the 
following results : The words there having the sound of (a) in 
modem English represent five modem French sounds : i. mod. 
Fr. u (y) as in adjuge, buffet 0\ judge Judgmeni Justice Justify, 
muliiply, publish, punish, supply, suppress, suspect \ 2.0U (u), as 
iuicker (?), butler, color, amplt, coverlet, covet, ciOvert, d<mbU^ 



HUGUENOT ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON 



241 



glutton, govern, governor, rut, sudden, suffer, supper, supple, 
sustenance, touch, truss \ 3. on (oq), as assumption, comfort 
(verb, O. Fr. covoiter, mod Fr. convoiter), discomfit^ juggler, 
number, plunge, trump ; 4. o (6), as brush, constable, nun, nun- 
nery, sovereign, sum ; 5. ^-feminine (a) in the one word succor. 

These same words represent seven different Latin sounds, 
two O. Fr. words, and three German words. Latin long u is 
represented by adjuge, judge, judgment (root juDic-), glutton 
(GLUTo), punish (fvsihe), govern (gubernare), butler (Low 
Latin buticula) ; Latin short n furnishes covet (root is CUPI- 
Dvs), governor (gCbernator), sudden (Low Latin subitanus), 
sovereign (Low Latin suPER+anus), number ; Latin u in posi- 
tion has the largest number : justice, justify, multiply, publish, 
supply, suppress, succor, double, rut (Fr. route. Low Latin via 
rupta), stiffer, supple, sustenance, assumption, plunge (Low 
Latin *plumbicare), trump (trump-card, Lat. triumpho), 
brush (Low Latin brustia), nun (Low Latin nunna or nonna), 
nunnery, sum. Latin long d furnishes couple, culvert (Lat. root 
COLARE, O. Fr. coulou'ere) ; Latin short d gives juggler (j5cu- 
LAtOR), color, constable (comes stabuli) ; Latin o in position 
furnishes truss (Lat. root tortus. Low Latin *toRTiARE. O. 
Fr. trusser, trosser), country (Low Latin contrada). The 
Latin particle con (r^) gives cover, coverled (Fr. couvreHi, from 
couvrir and ///; Latin co-operire), comfort (Low Latin CON- 
fortare), discomfit. The O. French furnishes two: buffet 
(origin doubtful), and butcher (O. Fr. boc, bouc, that is, buck- 
killer'). From the German we have supper (Low German su- 
pen), and touch (O. H. G. zucchen), und probably grudge. 

The sources of the (a)-sound represented by the Romance 
element of modern English are not so varied as in the Anglo- 
Saxon element. Still the leading vowels are the same (that is, a, d) 
as in the Anglo-Saxon element ; u, d are also common to both 
elements. The consonant-complex is the same. We also know 
that in the sixteenth century these Romance vowels (u, o, also 
with ou, eu) were interchangeable in French. Thus, the con- 
ditions are the same as in the Anglo-Saxon element, and as soon 
as the words became nationalized they would suffer the same 
fate. Even in French the Latin long and short u have melted 
together and appear as (a) and (a) in the accented syllable of 
modem English. If we go back to Chaucer's language, 
these two w's which produced modem (a) and (a) still preserved 
a different sound. The u corresponding to French u (y) was 
spoken more like b without Up-TOUXvdVcvg Xltvaxi V^^ >Qc\^ ^<c^x\. u 



242 



SYLVESTER PRIMER. 



in the Netherland dus, iusschen (ten Brink, *Chaucers Spr. u. 
Versk./ p. 53). The unaccented u suffered the same fate as the 
accented. When in a protected position we have (a) and (a). 
In the open syllable it exceptionally appears in modern English 
as (a) ; cf. M. E. stodie^ siadienden, mod. E. study , studied. 
In the close syllable, French unaccented u (y) shared the fate of 
Uy and exchanged with <?, as in jostyce^ bamyst^ torkye. It was 
regularly short in M. E., and probably represents exactly the 
same sound lying midway between u in but and Gaelic laogk 
described above. As in the Anglo-Saxon element, it developed 
in different ways according as it stood in an unaccented syllable 
or one with secondary accent, in open or close syllable. Cf. 
mod. E. jealously y coverture^ glutton^ covet ^ color ^ summons , 
juggler^ russet^ buffet^ company^ comfort^ country ^ covenable 
with journey, courtesy, burgess, conduit, etc. We not only find 
an exchange of u with o, but also in rare cases before a protected 
nasal ou appears; as, scoumJU (CI. 151), coumfort (Pt. 223), 
countre (P. 297), etc. This orthography possibly indicates that 
the vowel was not always short. We also find trobleth and 
troubleth, dobleth and doubleth. This difference of spelling 
is represented in the modem English ^tt^/, joust and adjust (all 
from Low Latin juxtare, adjuxtare). The M. E. spelling 
iousies, ioustynde would possibly indicate a long vowel, but even 
if some of these vowels still preserved their length in.the sixteenth 
century, they must have become common or short in the period 
of the transition to the sound in laogh. 

In the French of the sixteenth century, we find an exchange 
of both the u and the (and also ou) with eu. The words 
which more nearly concern us are :je trouve,je treuve,je prou- 
v€, je preuve, je espretcve, je reprouve, je repreuve (modern 
French ipreuve, preuve), je couvre, je coeuvre, cueuvrechief, 
queuvrechief , m£uvons, que je meuve,jesouffers,flourir,fleurir, 
florissant, fleurissant (Thurot i., p. 454 ffj. If we turn to the 
English of the same period, we shall find the same exchange. 
Thus we have proue, preooin, preouen, preued, preue, reproue, 
repreue. preofunge, preef, proof \ controue, controeued, contreue, 
contreeue ; / retreve (cf. O. Fr. retrouve and retreuve) ; couere, 
kujtere, keouere, keuere (cf. modern kiwer in Leistershire) ; 
kercheues, keuerchifs\ couerled, couerlite\ suffre, soffre, but 
never sou/re, nor seu/re. In modem English these words 
furnish a number of sounds : prove (u), proof (u), reprieve (i), 
con/rive (ai), kerchief (e), and our (a) in cover^ coverlet, suffer. 
The rhymes are also interesting: inenen\ cUuen,Kc\ttJQ.n\ swo- 



HUG UENO T ELEMENT IN CHARLESTON 243 

uen, swefen). proued (: houe, behdfian), proue (: woze^ wSgian : 
byhoue : loue /) ; reproue (: loue : byhoueiK) ; approve (: w£W^ : 
/^r) ; preued (: ^?«^</, heafod: leued) \preue (: -£«^ : /^//^) ; re- 
preue (: /fw^ : greue : beleue) ; cantroue (: moue). By the 
rhymes approve : »i<w^ : Aw^, we see that two distinct mod. E. 
sounds [u and (a)] were at this period near enough alike to 
rhyme with each other and the same may be said of all these 
words. It is difficult to determine just what this sound was, but 
Prof, ten Brink (ibid., p. 51) has described it as accurately 
as possible when he says : " The spelling ew is also likewise 
found where the sound ii (y) stands before a vowel : nieufe be- 
side muwe (Fr. mue), remewe. Both this spelling (evi) and the 
origin of eschewe (O. H. G. scuhan)^ sewe (O. H. G. siuwan) 
tend to show that the M. E. i^'-sound stood nearer the ^'-sound 
and perhaps came very near the Alsatian pronunciation of Ger- 
man u or Fr. ^w." 

Thus, again, we find ourselves in contact with a sound inter- 
mediate between ii and o and approaching the sound intermedi- 
ate between (a) and Gaelic iaogh. But this particular variety of 
this still-undetermined sound furnished but few words with the 
(a)-sound in mod. Eng. and very few with the ^«-sound in mod. 
Fr. Yet, enough in each case to show that it stood on the same 
niveau with the sound of different origin fi'om which the mod. 
Eng. (a) -sound was developed and may have been influenced 
by this undetermined sound, if it did not itself influence it. 

We have mentioned the shortening of the long d and its tran- 
sition to (a). But it rarely took this course. Frequently it 
passed to (uu), as sdne, soon; bSk, book \f6i, foot. "The pass- 
ages already cited from Palsgrave and Bullokar show that in 
their pronunciation M. E. ^ had not yet been changed complete- 
ly into (uu), as in the pronunciation of the other first Middle Eng- 
lish authorities : Palsgrave and Bullokar probably pronounced 
book exactly as Swedish (book, Ellis) " (Sweet*s * Hist, of 
Engl. Sounds,* p. 239). It is Sweet*s mid-mixed-round, short 
in Fr. homme ; cf. It. uomo. It is also heard in Western New 
York in home (Hoom), stone (stoon, or perhaps better ston). 
This is in all probability the identical sound from which the 
present (a) started in its transition to its present sound. We find 
isolated instances of its existence (that is of 00 or o) in various 
parts of the country and it is heard in Charleston in such word 
as booky look, shook f cook, could, would, etc., sometimes long and 
sometimes short. In the mouth of the vulgar it drops to (a). 
We can therefore distinguish three shad^ m xJ^fc Y^<i\\>M\6a5Gss^ 






244 



SYLVESTER PRIMER. 



of book^ etc. The first is the standard pronunciation of the 
cultured Cbuuk, or buk) ; it is the learned pronunciation used 
at the schools and by the few who pride themselves on a classic 
pronunciation. The second is heard in older persons and in 
those who have not been influenced by the more learned pro- 
nunciation (book, or bok). Often, however, the lower classes 
drop to a sound corresponding to the Scotch sound in come up 
and even to (a). 

The influence of the earlier French on the pronunciation of 
Beaufort and Beaufain has already been noticed in the * Trans, 
of Mod. Lang. Ass.' iii, p. 94. It is undoubtedly the direct 
influence of the Huguenot settlement here in the state. They 
probably brought with them the older pronunciation of eau 
(Dans la terminaison eau, I'e- feminin se fit entendre longtemps, 
particuli^rement dans les mots en ceau et zeaUy morceau^ ruis- 
seau, museaUy dans marieaUy bateau^ dans pseaumey et jusqu' Ik 
la fin du si^cle dans eau ; mais on n'entendait plus que o dans la 
plupart des mots. Thurot, ii, p. 747). We can possibly see the 
influence on the Charleston pronunciation of due^ etc. 

Consonant influence is less marked and of too subtle a nature 
to be traced back to its origin. The gutturals (g, k) present the 
greatest similarity in the two languages. On page 97 (ibid.) we 
discussed the palatalization of these letters in words like garden, 
cariy etc. The French of the latter part of the seventeenth cen- 
tury and the first part of the eighteenth offers a similar process for 
our study. Dangeau (1645-1723, cf. Thurot, ii, pp. 197-8), 
a Parisian, says : " II faut remarquer qu'en fransois devant les 
# ferm6s, les ^ ouverts et la voy^le eu, on prononce ces deus 
consones un peu mouill6es et come s'il y avait un petit i : on pro- 
nonce guMr come s'il y vait guiMr, rigueur come s'il y aviat 
riguieur^ question comes s'il y avait quiestiatiy vainquenr come 
s'il y avait vainquieur. Boindin (Paris, 1676-1751) makes the 
same remark. Dangeau's work was published in 1694 and 
Boindin's in 1709, the very period in which the Huguenots 
were emigrating to America. How extensive this palatalization 
was in France, or to what regions it was confined we are not 
informed by Thurot. But it was absolutely denied by con- 
temporaries and may be only a fancy of these writers. Still 
they were accurate in other respects and such a pronunciation 
may have existed, though not recognized as standard. It would 
be impossible to say whether it was brought here by them, as 
the French has disappeared. But it may have strengthened a 
tendency already existing. 



> < 



LA NAISSANCE 



DU 



CHEVALIER AU CYGNE 



OU LES 



ENFANTS CHANGES EN CYGNES 



FRENCH POEM OF THE XIIth CENTURY 

PUBLISHED FOR THB FIRST TIMB, TOGSTHBR WITH AN IHRDITBD PROSB VBRSIOM, 
FROM THB MSS. OF THB NATIONAL AND ARSBMAL UBRARIBt AT PARIS 



WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES AND VOCABULARY 



BY 

HENRY ALFRED TODD, Ph. D. 

ASSOCIATB IN THB ROMANCB LANGUAGBt, JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVBRSITY 



BALTIMORE 

THE MODERN LANQUAQE ASSOCIATION 

1889 



, TO 



ERNESTO MONACI 



PROFESSOR IN THE UNIVERSITY OF ROME 



THIS WORK 



IS 



GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 



T^O the friendly and unfailing interest of M. Gaston Paris I 
am a second time indebted for suggestions and encourage- 
ment leading to the publication of an inedited Old French text, — 
with the much regretted difference, however, that owing to the 
force of circumstances it has been necessary in the present case 
to forego the important benefit of any direct assistance or re- 
vision on the part of my former instructors. Apart from this 
disadvantage, the necessity of bringing the edition within the 
limits of the publications of the Modern Language Association, 
has precluded an exhaustive treatment of the numerous subjects 
rightly considered as belonging to a critical edition. In the 
Introduction, only a brief sketch could be given of the leading 
affiliations of the legend involved, with some account of the 
MSS. employed ; while all formal study of the phonetics, mor- 
phology, syntax, versification, dialect, etc., of the poem, which 
should naturally succeed the preliminary constitution of the 
text, have had to be postponed, in view of what were adjudged, 
within the purposes of the Modern Language Association, the 
more practical and immediate claims of Notes and Vocabulary. 
It is doubtless never, in ordinary conditions, within the power of 
any single worker to establish in a first edition a wholly accurate 
and satisfactory text, but I have used my best endeavors to that 
end, in the hope that even a partial success in the manipu- 
lation of material so interesting in itself, may call forth the 
critical contributions of the best Romance scholars towards its 
utmost possible improvement. 

H. A. T. 

Johns Hopkins University, 

Baltimore, October^ iS8q, 



INTRODUCTION. 

The name " Cycle of the Crusade " was first given by M. 
L6on Gautier, in his * Epopees fran9aises,' to the chansons de 
geste which grew up in celebration of the heroes and exploits of 
the First Crusade. The same series of poems was, in 1877, 
made the subject of a collective study by H. Pigeonneau, 
under the title, * Le Cycle de la Croisade et de la famille de 
Bouillon.* It would not be here in place to outiine what has 
been done in the way of publishing, analysing and classifying 
the various poems of this cycle. Their nucleus is the Chanson 
d'Antioche, written in the second quarter of the twelfth century, 
probably by Richard le P^lerin, and describing the First 
Crusade, from the preaching of Peter the Hermit to the capture 
of Antioch. Following soon after this, but not by the same 
author, comes a continuation, entitled the Chanson de JirusaUm^ 
reciting the d^nodment of the Crusade with the renowned victory 
of the Christians at the battle of Ascalon, written probably near 
the beginning of the Second Crusade, i. e., towards the year 
1 147. The conspicuous and natural hero of these poems was 
the military leader of the Crusade, Godfrey of Bouillon, the 
same who at a later date becomes the central personage of the 
more famous Gerusalemme Liberaia of Tasso. The literary 
popularity as well as historical prominence of the name of God- 
frey, as we are prepared to expect from what is known of the 
evolution of other mediaeval cycles, led to the development of a 
branch carrying the story further back and recounting the origin 
and earlier career of the crusader hero, under the title of 
Chanson du Chevalier au Cygne et de Godefroi de Bouillon, 
According to the earliest version of the poem, the birth of God- 
frey was on this wise : — Otto, being emperor at Nimwegen, is 
appealed to by the widowed Duchess of Bouillon and her 
daugl\ter Beatrice, for his protection against the threatened 
usurpation of Renier, Duke of Saxony. At the same moment 
there arrives on the river an unknown knight, in a boat which is 
drawn in tow by a white swan. The " Knight of the Swan " 
disembarks, undertakes the defense of the duchess and her 



11 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

daughter, slays the usurper, and marries Beatrice, imposing upon 
her, however, an oath never to question him as to his birth or 
antecedents, with the warning that her first indiscretion in this 
matter will result in their certain separation. A daughter, Ida, 
is born to the couple thus united; but by the time she has 
reached the age of seven years, the mother's curiosity can no 
Ibnger be restrained, and she propounds to her husband the 
fatal question. At this the knight, in sorrowful obedience to 
his destiny, bids farewell to his vassals, recommends his daughter 
to the emperor, and repairs to the shore, where the swan that 
first brought him to that land is awaiting him with his boat ; and 
the knight, departing as he came, disappears never to be heard 
of more. Ida, having attained her fourteenth year, is married 
by the Count Eustace of Boulogne, and from this union spring 
three sons, Godfrey, Eustace and Baldwin, that is to say, our 
Godfrey of Bouillon and his two distinguished brothers. — So 
much is briefly given here, with a view to indicating broadly 
the relation to the Cycle of the Crusade in general, and to the 
Chanson de Godefroi de Bouillon in particular,' of the poem of 
the Naissance du Chevalier au Cygne^ which is the subject of 
our present study. 

I. — The Legend." 

From the twelfth century, down to the production of Wagner's 
important opera of Lohengrin in 1850, many have been the 
forms assumed on European soil by the legend of a mysterious- 
ly appearing and disappearing knight, who performs deeds of 
valor in the interest of defenseless innocence. From the earliest 
times, however, it appears attached to another legend, that of 
the Children changed into Swans, from which it may be sup- 
posed to have been originally distinct. It is this latter legend 
of the Transformed Swans, ingeniously appropriated to account 
for the origin of the mythical knight who had been assumed as 

1 For a brief characterization of this cycle, cf. G. Paris, ' La Litt.-rature franfaise au 
moyen &ge/ ^39. 

2 The legend of the Knight of the Swan has been more or less fully studied by G5rres, 
Introduction to his edition of Lohengrin/ Heidelberg, 18x3; by the Baron von Reiffenberg, 
Introduction to his edition of the 'Chronique rim^e de Philippe Mousket,' torn, ii, pp. 
xxxiv-Ivi (Collection de Chroniques beiges), and Introduction to the ' Chevalier au Cygne ' 
(Brussels, 1846), pp. i-clxxxiv ; by Von der Hagen, Abhandlun^tn <Ur Berliner Academie, 
1846, p. 513 If. ; by W. MUller, " Die Sage vora Schwanriiter," Germania, i (1856), pp. 4x8- 
440; by W, J. Thorns, preface to vol. iii of ' Early Eng, Prose Romances,' London, 1846 ; 
by Utterson, Introduction to the *Chevalere Assigne ' (re-edited with jprcface, etc., by H, 
H Gibbs, E. E. Text Society, Extra Series, vi, London, 1868.) Bibliographical references 
are given by Oesterley, Introduction to 'Johannis de Alta Silva Dolopathos\ Strassburg, 

1873. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. iii 

the ancestor of Godfrey of Bouillon, which forms in reality 
the subject-matter of the accompanying text of the Natscance du 
Chevalier au Cygne. 

I. Confining our attention for the present to this previously 
inedited version of the * Naissance,* we find what appears to be 
the earliest recorded trace of the legend which it contains, in the 
Latin romance of the monk Jean de Haute Seille (Johannes de 
Alta Silva), entitled * Dolopathos, sive de Rege et Septem Sapi- 
entibus/ The story of this earliest version, which is here 
analysed from the Latin text as published for the first time by 
Oesterley, in 1873,3 is as follows: 

A certain youth, while hunting, gives chase to a white stag 
and loses his way in the forest. There he discovers a fay 
{nimpha) bathing in a fountain and holding a golden necklace 
in her hand. Captivated by her beauty he approaches, carries 
her from the fountain, eademque node sub aivo juxta fontem 
nuptias celebravit. The fay, being versed in the portents of the 
stars, recognizes that she is destined to give birth, at one time, 
to six sons and a daughter; and in terror reveals this to her 
companion. Striving to allay her fears, he returns with her in 
the morning to his castle, where his mother, filled with jealousy, 
endeavors to break off the union. Failing; in this, when the 
seven children are born, each with a golden chain about its 
neck, she substitutes seven puppies for them, as they lie beside 
their sleeping mother, and sends them away with a servant, to 
be smothered or drowned. The servant, unwilling to put them 
to death, leaves them under a tree in the forest, where they are 
discovered and cared for by an old hermit. Meanwhile their 
wicked grandmother shows the puppies to her son, who is horri- 
fied at the sight and orders his wife to be inhumed up to her 
breasts in the open courtyard, and to have poured over her head 
all the offscounngs of the palace. Thus she remains for seven 
years. One day when their father is on the chase, he comes 
upon the children in the forest wearing their golden necklaces, 
but is unable to overtake them. Returning home disappointed, 
he relates to his mother what he has seen, and she, conscious of 
her guilt, learns from the servant who exposed the children that 
they had not been put to death. The servant now hastens in 
quest of them and finds the six sons transformed into swans and 
disporting themselves on the river, while their sister keeps watch 
over their necklaces on the bank. Coming stealthily upon her — 
caute molliterque movens pedes — he snatches away all the neck- 
laces but her own. On his return these are ^ven to a goldsmith 
to be wrought into a goblet. In vain he tries to melt or break 
them — excepting, indeed, one, which his efforts slighdy injure. 

3 A more recent edition has been published by Studemund, of which I have not the indi- 
cation. 



IV NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

So he substitutes other gold of equal weight, and keeps the 
necklaces for himself. — Now the children, having lost their neck- 
laces, are unable to recover their human form, and flying away 
with their sister in quest of a lake to live upon, arrive at the 
pond in their father's pleasure-grounds. There he sees the 
swans, and gives orders that they shall not be molested. The 
little sister, who is able to resume her natural form at will, visits 
the palace daily to ask for bread, of which — without knowing 
who she is — she gives a part to her mother, who is still inhumed 
in the palace court, and tne rest she carries to her swan-brothers 
at the pond. These strange actions having been seen by all, the 
father sends for the girl, and finding upon her a necklace like 
the one that had been worn by her mother, draws from her all 
the story of her brothers and herself The grandmother — totius 
iniquitatis coagulum omniumque pessimarum mulierum caput 
— overhears the conversation, and plans with the servant to kill 
the litde girl with a sword on her way to the pond. But he is 
surprised by the father in this attempt. The wicked grand- 
mother makes a full confession, the goblet is brought forth, the 
goldsmith summoned, and the necklaces returned to the children, 
who are thus all restored, excepting the one whose necklace had 
been injured, for whom nothing can avail. So he joins himself 
henceforth to the fortunes of one of his brothers. Hie est eyg- 
71US de quo fama in etemum per sever at, quod cathena aurea 
miliiem in navicula trahat armatum. The captive mother is 
happily released, and the wicked grandmother confined in her 
place. 

The Dolopathos version of the * Seven Wise Masters ' from 
which the above tale is extracted, is in a general way an imita- 
tion of the Oriental romance of * Sintipas,' but is quite different 
from the Latin text of the * Historia Septem Sapientum * and the 
French * Roman des Sept Sages,* which likewise go back to the 
* Sintipas.' ♦ The author of the * Dolopathos,* as appears from 

his statement that what he writes he has written non ut visa, sed 
ut audita, as well as from incidental evidence, gathered his 
material from oral and not from written sources; and of the 
eight stories that he narrates, only three coincide with those 
told in the * Historia Septem Sapientum.* The other five, and 
among them our legend of the Seven Swans, have been derived 
from sources other than the 'Sintipas.' But it will aid us in 
forming an idea of the setting in which our legend is first dis- 
covered, if we cast a glance at the make-up of the collection of 
tales of which it forms a part. The framework of the * Dolo- 
pathos ' version may be presented succinctly in a few words : 

4 Cf. Gaston Paris, Rfiinania II, p. 4908*. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, y 

A widower king has a son whom he confides to a wise precep- 
tor to be educated. The time for the youth's return having 
arrived, the preceptor, after consulting the stars, admonishes 
the prince that for seven days after appearing at court he must 
observe absolute silence, under penalty of the gravest mis- 
fortunes. Meantime the king has married again, and his second 
wife, on the return of the mute prince, becomes enamoured of 
him. Finding her advances repelled, she shamelessly accuses 
him to the king, who orders him to be put to death. But seven 
Wise Men, by relating to the king stories of the perfidy of 
women, succeed in deferring, from day to day, the execution of 
the sentence, until at the expiration of the seven days the prince 
speaks in his own defense, and the wicked stepmother suffers 
the punishment in his stead. 

Of the moral tales thus narrated, our story of the Swan- 
children is the seventh ; but since it is not one of those borrowed 
from the Oriental ' Sintipas,' where are we to look for the traces 
of its origin ? In form, in contents, in general tone, it fits in 
admirably with the Oriental setting in which it is found imbedded, 
but no Eastern prototype of the tale has thus far been pointed 
out. On the other hand, the legend has been believed to belong 
peculiarly to the region of Lorraine (^Lohengriyi being in fact, a 
variation of the German Lothringen)^ and this view is supported 
by M. Gaston Paris, who, in the article already referred to, 
presents as a reason for his opinion the consideration that the 
story of the Swans is more simply and logically narrated than 
the other tales of the collection, a fact which would seem to 
show that it had not been subjsct to the many alterations inci- 
dental to a series of migrations. It may also be borne in mind 
that the swan figures somewhat conspicuously in the mythology 
of the Northern peoples, the Valkyrias, who may be called the 
fays of the Scandinavians, appearing in the day-time in the 
form of swans, and one of their number bearing the name of 
Svanhvita, ' Swan -white.* 

2. Whatever may have been the ultimate origin of the legend, 
it found its way into the French written vernacular through the 
translation of the ' Dolopothos * into octosyllabic verse which 
was made in the same century by the poet Herbert.5 The 
story of the White Swans, as told by Jean de Haute Seille, is 
here faithfully reproduced, but naturally with the addition of 
many poetical embellishments, which, though interesting in 

themselves, there is here no occasion to dwell upon. 

, . 

5 Bninet et de Montaiglon, ' Dolopathos/ Paris, 1856. The tale of the Swans was ana- 
lysed by Loisclcur Deslongchamps, ' Essai siir Ics fables indiennes/ p. 1380'., Paris, 1838. 



vi NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

3. Closely related to these two redactions, but perhaps not 
directly derived from either of them, is the story of the so-called 
Naissance du Chevalier au Cygne, In this poem the characters 
are for the first t!me given individual names and the semblance 
of an historical setting. The scenes are considerably amplified, 
in order to lend an air of reality and local color, and various 
episodes are inserted which are more or less outside the course 
of the original narrative. 

We are here introduced to a certain King Lothair, of the 
region beyond Hungary, who, while hunting loses his way and 
comes to a fountain, by the side of which he falls asleep. Here 
he is discovered by a beautiful maiden, Eliouse, who shades his 
face from the sun with one of her long sleeves. Awakened by 
this movement, Lothair is at once enamoured of her beauty, 
and revealing to her that he is a king, he oflTers her his hand 
and crown. In accepting, she predicts that their descendants will 
furnish a king to the Orient. Her children, each with a magic 
necklace, will consist of six sons and a daughter at one birth, 
which will cost the mother her life. On their appearance at the 
royal castle, the queen-mother, Matrosilie, opposes the marriage, 
but the king persists and the nuptials are celebrated with great 
splendor. A few months later, Lothair*s dominions are invaded 
by a Pagan king, Gordoce of Palie, whom it is necessary to 
repel. During the absence of Lothair on this mission, Eliouse 
(fatally to herself, as predicted) gives birth to the seven children. 
Matrosilie conceals them in two baskets and orders her servant, 
Monicier, to abandon them in the forest. He leaves the baskets 
humanely outside the window of a hermit, who, with his sister, 
cares for the children. The queen-mother sends word to the 
king that his wife has borne him seven serpents which have 
bitten her to death and flown away through the air. In sorrow 
the king founds to her memory a monastery, with daily distri- 
bution of bread to the poor. Seven years later, Rudemart, a 
messenger of the king, chances to seek shelter at the hermitage, 
where he is struck by the sight of the children with their necklaces, 
and on his return relates to the queen-mother what he has seen. 
He is at once sent back for the necklaces, which he cuts oflf with 
sharp scissors, as the children lie asleep in bed ; but the little 
eirl IS safely covered up and escapes detection. The six boys 
become swans and fly away to the nsh-pond in the royal domain. 
The king, seeing them there, gives orders that they are not to 
be molested, but his nephew rlantoul, who knows nothing of 
this injunction, tries to shoot one of them for the king, to whom 
he brings word of his failure. Lothair, enraged, throws at Plan- 
toul a gold basin, which is broken, and to supply the gold to 
repair it, the queen-mother gives to the goldsmith one of the 
six necklaces. — The hermit, grieving at the loss of the children, 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, vii 

decides that he ought not longer to expose the sister to like 
perils, and' sends her forth to make her way to the city, where 
ne hopes she may find protectors. In time she is directed by a 
good woman to the king's monastery to ask for bread. This 
she takes to the pond to moisten it, where she recognizes her 
brothers and gives them a portion of her food. The king^'s 
seneschal, following her thither with attempts at familiarity, is 
driven away by the swans, and carries the strange account to 
Lothair. The king himself in turn follows the girl and questions 
her, when her story of the seven children and their necklaces 
discloses the perfidy of the queen-mother, who confesses, 
receives pardon, and restores the five necklaces, whereupon five 
of the swans recover their human form, while the sixth is left 
disconsolate. The five boys are armed knights and go to seek 
their fortunes in the world ; but one of them, the Knight of the 
Swan, is unwilling to leave his spell-bound brother behind, and 
setting out on their voyage together, the Swan towing^ the 
knight in his bark, they arrive aifter sixty days at the city of 
Nimwegen. 

In the above version we note several characteristic variations 
from that of the * Dolopathos.* The youth is here a king. His 
bride is no longer represented as a fay — ^although the word slips 
once into the text as if by inadvertence (v. 1635). She loses her 
life in giving birth to the children, which relieves the narrative 
of the extreme cruelty of the previous story and makes it easy 
for the king to pardon his mother's offense, when all his children 
but one are at last restored to him. Indeed, the son's duty of 
filial devotion is especially emphasized here : 

S'une autre eiist 90U fait, ses cors en fust honis, 
Mais per 90U qu'est sa mere, ne Ten sera ja pis. 

In this sense, the change may be regarded as an improvement, 
although it at once removes the story from its connection with 
the extensive cycle whose distinctive feature is the persecution 
of feminine innocence. The children, moreover, are in this 
version first transformed into swans by the mere loss of their 
necklaces, while in the former, having availed themselves of the 
magic power of the necklaces to transform them into swans, they 
are unable, when deprived of these, to break the spell and resume 
their former condition — which is evidendy the more primitive 
form of the enchantment. Again, the failure of the sister to 
change herself into a swan and fly away with her brothers, which 
necessitates her being sent off by the hermit later, alone and un- 
friended, seems clearly to be a perverted and unnatural feature of 



viii NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGJ^E, 

the tale. Another incidental feature of the ' Dolopathos ' version, 
however, has been retained, which might readily have been so 
altered as to aid in preserving the verisimilitude of the new con- 
ditions developed in the chanson, namely, the period intervening 
between the birth of the children and their discovery in the 
forest might have been extended from seven years to an indefi- 
nite number— the later prose version makes it grans tans (cf. p. 
96, 1. 41) — whereby the attentions of the king's seneschal to the 
sister and the readiness of the brothers to receive the order of 
knighthood, would not have called for the reader's indulgent 
allowances. 

4. We come now to the well-known form of the * Chevalier au 
Cygne* as published by Hippeau in 1874,^ to which are allied 
most of the versions of the story occurring in German, English, 
Italian and Spanish. It will be unnecessary to offer here an 
analysis of this important version, since an inedited prose trans- 
lation and abridgment of it, scarcely longer than an analysis — 
the author says : I'ai conmenchie sans rime pour restore avoir 
plus a abrcgier — is published at the end of the present volume. 
This redaction is noteworthy for suppressing the meeting of the 
king and the fay beside the fountain and for postponing the 
prediction of the future greatness of their progeny ; in place of 
this introduction is substituted a discussion between a king and 
his queen as to the possibility of a woman innocendy giving 
birth to twins, which the childless queen, in virtuous jealousy of 
a happy mother of twins whom the king regrettingly points out 
to her, strenuously denies. Later she herself becomes the 
mother of seven sons at a birth, whereupon she is taunted and 
persecuted by her wicked mother-in-law, who persuades the 
king, as in the * Dolopathos ' version, that his wife has given 
birth to seven puppies. The names of the characters are here 
changed throughout, Loihair being replaced by O riant (is ''le 
roi Orianf' possibly the echo of ** wi roi d' Orient'' ?), Eiiouse 
by BeatriSy Matrosilie by Matabrujiey Monicier by Marcoti^ 
Rudeniart by Malquerre^ while the Chevalier au Cygne^ who is 
not otherwise designated in the preceding version, receives the 
name of Eliey^ and he it is who escapes without the loss of his 
talisman, becomes the champion of his condemned mother, the 



6 La Chanson du Chevalier au Cygnc et dc Godefroy dc Bouillon, in 8vo, chcz Aubry. 
Paris, 1874. — Deuxifeme partie: Godefroid dc Bouillon, Episode des Ch^tifs, Paris, 1877. 

7 The nominative forms, Helyas, Elyas, etc., are more commonly met with. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, ix 

exposer of his wicked grandmother, the suppresser of a revolt 
which she instigates, the successor of his father Oriant, and the 
hero of various exploits, all before his arrival in the mysterious 
bark at Nimwegen. 

5. Our attention is next claimed by a carefully prepared com- 
posite redaction of the two preceding versions, preserved in a 
manuscript of the Arsenal Library at Paris. It begins with a 
narrative reproducing very faithfully, for the first twelve or 
thirteen hundred verses, the text of the * Naissance ' version ; 
and from this manuscript are derived the variants accompany- 
ing the early portion of the present edition. Apart from the 
ordinary verbal deviations, the scribe has contented himself with 
the substitution of the name of Oriant for that of Lot aire up to 
the point where the former version is fully merged into the 
latter, and the story is continued in accordance with the Elie 
version. In the few cases wher€ the name Lotaire occurs in the 
caesura, thus precluding the substitution for it of a word of 
masculine termination, the difficulty is avoided by slightly 
changing the structure of the sentence, as will be later pointed 
out. Another individual instance of substitution is of rather 
striking interest. Contrary to the statement of Pigeonneau, who 
speaks of la vilre du rot que le polme ne noinme pas (' Cycle 
de la Croisade,' p. 127), the name of Lothair*s mother, Matrosi- 
lie, is mentioned a single time in the * Naissance ' version, and 
then in the assonance {Jo vos lairai ma mere, dame Matrosilie, 
V. 713). Being already aware of Pigeonneau*s remark, and 
having discovered here what appeared to be the name of the 
queen-mother, although its isolated occurrence and unfamiliar 
form left much room for suspicion as to the correctness of the 
text or of the reading, it was with no litde curiosity that, in the 
work of collation, I approached the reproduction of this passage 
in the Arsenal MS., where, if this were indeed the name of 
Lothair's mother, the difficulty in connection with substituting 
the form Matabrune would in some way have to be overcome 
by the scribe. What was then the collator's sense of being en 
rapport with the vanished hand that had penned this line over 
six hundred years before, when it was found that the expedient 
adopted for obviating the little malencoritre was to strike a com- 
promise between the two names, by writing Maiabruliel In one 
or two instances the name Lotaire also occurs in the assonance, 
and here the lines are so changed in each case as to end in the 



X NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE, 

vioxA /aire. Rarely, no doubt, has a scribe incorporated so 
lengthy a passage into another work, with none but changes so 
minute in the language of the borrowed text. 

6. Dating from about the middle of the fourteenth century we 
find another elaborate composite version* in which, curiously- 
enough, the two introductions — the meeting with the fay and 
the discussion over the birth of twins — are neatly interwoven. 
Here the king marries the fay in the manner of the first version, 
after which occurs the discussion as to the twins. In this version 
IS introduced the war against the Pagan king, but the author 
foregoes any description of it, with a view, as he says, to abridg- 
ing the story. The hermit himself is called Elie, and in turn 
gives this name to his prot^gi. Matabrune's servitor discovers 
the children who had been exposed in the wood, and learns 
from the hermit their history. When the goldsmith receives 
the necklaces, he melts only one in the crucible and the metal 
multiplies in so wonderful a manner that he has enough to make 
two goblets. From this he suspects some mystery, and careful- 
ly preserves the other five necklaces. The story proceeds as 
before, excepting that here, after Elie has been for some time 
king, his brother the swan, without any premonition, calls for 
him on the river-bank with his bark, and Elie, bidding farewell 
to his kingdom, repairs to Nimwegen, there to redress the wrong 
of the Duchess of Bouillon. 

Thus far our attention has been confined to the various forms 
which the legend has assumed in France, and it will not be 
possible to follow in detail the numerous transformations it has 
undergone in other countries. In Germany the legend is con- 
nected with the distinguished names of Wolfram von Eschen- 
bach and Conrad von Wiirzburg. English versions are given 
in an alliterative poem of 370 verses entitled Romance of the 
Chevalere Assigne, and in a work of forty-three chapters called 
HelyaSy Knight of the Swan. In Italy the story appears under 
the title of Hystoria della Regina Stella e de Mattabruna ; » 
Spain has the legend incorporated at great length in the Gran 
Conquista de Ultramar ; '^ while Iceland has her Saga of Helisy 
Knight of the Swan, 



8 Le Chevalier au Cygne et Godefroy de Bouillon, po me historique, public pour la pre- 
miere fois avec de nouvelles recherches tur les l^endes qui ont rapport jk la Relgique, un 
travail et des documents tur les Croisades ; par le Baron de Reiffenberg, Bruxelles, 1846. 

9 G. Passano, ' Novellieri luliani/ xo ' La Gran Conquista de Ultramar/ chap, xlvii ft, 
(Biblioteca de autores espaf.oles, tom. xliv). Cf. G. Paris, Romamia xvii, p. 536. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, xi 

Even while unwillingly passing these interesting and widely 
diffused versions with a mere mention, it may seem especially 
in place to consider briefly the forms in which the legend has 
been rendered almost universally current among the present 
generation of readers, in the Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm 
and of Hans Christian Andersen. 

As told by Grimm, the story is in some respects one of the 
most interesting of the versions that have come down to us, in- 
asmuch as having been gathered from popular tradition within 
the present century, it still presents certain features which appear 
to carry us back in a vague way to peculiarities of the Dolo- 
pathos and Naissance versions that have not been preserved in 
any of the other redactions. 

In Grimn^'s tale we have a king astray in the forest in pursuit 
of a stag. There he comes upon an old woman who promises 
to direct him out of the forest, on condition that he marries her 
daughter, who is peerless in beauty. He consents, his bride 
mounts behind him, and he takes her to his casde and marries 
her. — By his first wife, the king has had seven children, six 
sons and a daughter. Fearing that their step-mother may ill- 
treat them, he conceals them in a casde in the heart of the 
forest, the path to which is so obscure that the king himself 
requires a lairy clue, in order to make his way thither. But his 
new queen discovers the secret, and makes for the children six 
magic shirts. One day while the king is away on the chase, 
the queen goes to the hidden castle and puts the shirts on the 
children, whereupon they immediately become swans, all ex- 
cept the little girl, who had not made her appearance. The 
next day the king ^oes to the castle, and finds only the 
daughter. She tells him how she has seen her brothers changed 
into swans and how they have flown away over the trees. Fear- 
ing the same fate for the girl, the king; tries to take her away 
with him, but she has such a dread of her stepmother that she 
begs to be left one more night in the forest. That same night 
she escapes from the castle, and going in quest of her brothers, 
finds a cabin containing six little beds. Towards morning six 
swans fly in at the windows. They begin to breathe on each 
other and in the act their plumage is turned into magic shirts. 
The sister recognizes her brothers and asks them what she can 
do to deliver them. They reply : by remaining six years 
without speaking or laughing, and by weaving them meanwhile 
six new shirts out of daisies. Their brief respite has now 
expired, and they resume the shape of swans and fly away. 
The sister begins the task. One day the king of that country 
and his huntsmen pass that way, and espy her in her tower. 
She refuses to answer their questions, but to appease them 



xii NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

throws them first her golden necklace, then her belt, garters, 
all, in fact, but her chemise. But the king will not be 
satisfied ; he finds her so beautiful that he throws his mantle 
about her and carries her off to his palace, where he marries 
her. But the king has an evil mother, and when the queen 
gives birth to her first-born child, the grandmother removes the 
babe while its mother sleeps and smearing the latter's mouth 
with blood accuses her to the king of having eaten her own 
child. The king will not believe this, but when the second 
child disappears in the same suspicions manner, and the mother, 
being mute, cannot exculpate herself, the king is no longer able 
to doubt, and the queen is condemned to death. But the six 
shirts at which she has been so long working are nearly finished, 
and as she is led to the stake, the six swans come flying down 
to her, and receiving their six shirts are at once transformed. 
Now the young queen is free to defend herself, and the wicked 
grandmother expiates her crime at the same stake. The king 
and queen live long and happily with their six brothers, and 
with three children who are born to them. 

We have here two of the prominent features of the framework 
of the Dolopaihos, viz.. the scheming of the second wife to harm 
the children of the first, and the partial success of the attempt 
through the prolonged silence that has been imposed on the 
innocent victim. But it is interesting to note that whereas these 
features belong only to the setting of the stories in the Seven 
Wise Masters, they have here been incorporated into what, in 
the Dolopatho:^ was one of the subordinate tales. 

The version given us by Hans Andersen is only like a distant 
echo of the tale we have been tracing, yet it bears unmistakable 
evidence of having a common origin with it. It is called the 
White Swans, and fills some fifty duodecimo pages. 

In Andersen the king is represented as having had by his first 
wife twelve children, eleven sons, and a daughter, named Eliza.'® 
His second queen banishes the daughter to a peasant's hut and 
bids the boys to "fly away like great birds without a voice." 
But the spell is not so evil as she had thouj^ht, for they turn into 
magnificent swans and take flight. At the age of fifteen, Eliza 
is brought home again ; and the queen, seeing how beautiful she 
is, would fain have changed her into a swan like her brothers, 
only she durst not, for fear of the king ; so she rubs her over 
with walnut juice and leaves her hair unkempt, so that the 
father can not recognize his daughter. Thereupon Eliza starts 
out in quest of her brothers and meets an old woman, who tells 
her she has seen eleven swans swimming in the river, with 
golden crowns on their heads. She follows the river to the sea, 
and just as the sun is sinking, the eleven swans come flying to 

zo It seems possible that the names Eliousct Eiie, Eliza^ in the legend have a common 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. xiii 

the shore. Their plumage disappears, and they stand before 
her, eleven handsome princes. Recognizing their sister, they 
weave a net of willow-bark and carry her to their own enchanted 
land across the sea. There Eliza prays to have revealed to her 
a means of releasing them, and is wafted to the palace of the 
Fata Morgana, where the radiant fairy was quite like the old 
woman who had earlier directed her. The fairy tells her she 
must break nettles with her bare feet, for flax from which to 
plait eleven shirts of mail, and must never once speak till these 
are done. While she is busy at this task, the king of the country 
passes that way with his huntsmen, and they carry her off to 
the palace, where the king marries her with great pomp ; but 
never can he induce her to utter a word. When her supply of 
nettles is exhausted she is forced to procure 'more by visiting 
the churchyard at dead of night : there the archbishop discovers 
her and accuses her to the king, who condemns her to be put to 
death ; so she is imprisoned with the bundle of nettles for her 
pillow and the shirts of mail for a coverlet. When the day for 
the execution arrives, all the >shirts are finished excepting one 
sleeve : and as Eliza is being led to the stake the eleven swans 
appear, over whom she quickly throws the shirts and they are 
all transformed. But the youngest brother has a swan's wing in 
place of an arm, for a sleeve was wanting to his shirt. ** Now I 
may speak," she said ; " I am innocent." So she lived for ever 
after happy with the king. 

II. — The Manuscripts. 

The manuscripts in which we are directly interested in con- 
nection with the present edition, are unfortunately only two, yet 
the oldest and most important of these is so good as largely to 
atone for the lack of a more elaborate apparatus critic us. It is 
preserved in the National Library at Vzr'xSyfonds frarifais, No. 
12558, and was described by M. Paulin Paris, in his edition of 
the Chanson d'Antioche, as follows : ** Vol. in-f^ parvo, sur v^lin, 
de 192 feuillets, orn^ de miniatures et de vignettes fort pr^cieu- 
ses, ^crit vers le commencement du xiii* si^cle. Reli6 en marro- 
quin rouge aux amies de France sur les plats, et en chiffre de 
Louis XV sur le dos. Tres beau et bon manuscrit." The poem 
of the A^aissance occupies the first nineteen folios together with 
the redo and a small part of the zrrso of the twentieth folio, and 
is immediately followed by the Chanson d' AntiochCy with only 
an intervening miniature, depicting the arrival of the Knight of 
the Swan in his bark at Nimwegen. The other miniature illus- 
trations of the Naissance arc all grouped symmetrically on the 
recto oiih^ feuii/c dc garde. They are seven in number: 



xiv XA/SS.-^XCE DC CHEVALIER AC CYGSE, 

No. I. EHiouse laN-in^ her maruke over the 6cc of the sleep- 
ing king. His horse stands at hb skie. and his horn is suspended 
6rom a neighboring tree : No. 2. Txxhair on horseback. Eliouse 
on her mule, tolloved bv Samoxne on horseback, as thev arrive 
at the kite's palace. — No. 3. The birth ot the se\'en children : 
Matronlie standing at the foot of Eliouse's bed. holding two 
baskets, three children in each basket and one on her arm. — 
No. 4. Monider hanging the nro baskets at the window of the 
hermit s huL — No. 5. The six children taking flight in the form 
of swans. ha\-ix^ been robbed of diexr necklaces by Rudemart, 
who stands by the bed. — No. 6. The sister feeding the six swans 
at the pond. — No. 7. The kii^ transforming the swans into youths 
by restoring their necklaces. The manuscript is without rubrics. 

The second manuscript is that of the composite redaction 
numbered 5. above (Arsenal 3139, formerly B. L. 165 ■. M. 
Paulin Paris describes it in these words (lac. ciL' : " VoL in 4^ 
magno sur v€lin i doubles colonnes. om^ de miniatures curieuses ; 
dat6 de la fin de Tann^ 1268. Ms. pr^cieux ex^cut^ avec soin.*' 
The manuscript nimibers 243 folios, and has been trimmed so 
closely by the binder as almost to clip the rubric at the top of 
folio 235, and e\-en the uppermost line of each of the other 
remaining folios. Across die top of folio i, verso, runs the 
following rubric : 

Cest 9ment li rois oriis ki fu laious le ch'r au cisne ala each* 

en le forlest z 9ment il sendormi sor li riu dune fontaine z 9ment 

.1. demisele le croua dormat Id li mist se mal deult se uiaire p» 

le soleL z puis leut il a feme si comme li Ii\Tes le deuisera. — 

Below this rubric a double miniature extends across the page, 

representing at the left the king on horseback, blowing his horn 

and accompanied by his dogs : at the right, the king lies asleep 

and the damsel b spreading her mancke over his fe.ce. — Across 

the top of folio 9, verso, runs the rubric : Cest esi 9 li mere le 

ch'r au cisne se deliura des .viL en tans z 9ment matabrune li taic 

les eJ&s les enuoia p'-^ noier par main en le foriesL — Under the 

fourth line of 9*^ is a miniature representing the queen with her 

new -bom babes, and Matabrune handing one of them over to 

an attendant. — Folio 27. verso, across the top : Cest ensi c6 li 

che\-a:iers le dsne entra ou batiel z que li cisnes lamena a ni- 

maie et q-'. enprist le batail p« le ueue dame ducoise de builloii. 

Enuiers Renier le sesne de saissoigne. — Across the same page 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. xv 

is a miniature showing the knight in armor, with his shield (a 
red cross on a field argent) suspended from the mast of his 
boat, which is drawn by the swan, arriving at land and welcomed 
by the emperor, the duchess and attendants. 



CE EST DE LA NAISSENCE .1. CHEVALIER VAILLANT, 
LE CHEVALIER LE CISNE, QUI DEX PAR AMA TANT. 



O EGNOR, or m'escot^s, por Deu et por son non, 
^^ Par iter convenent Dex vos face pardon, 
Li rois de sainte glore, qui par anontion 
Vint en la sainte dame qui Marie ot a non. 
5 Jou vos wel conmencier une bone chan9on, 
L'estorie en fut trovee el mostier S. Fagon, 
Tot droit en Rainscevals, si com oi avon, 
Par dedans une aumaire u les livres met on ; 
La Tavoit mise uns abes qui molt estoit preudon ; 

lo Cil le prist a Nimaie, si com lisant trueve on. 
Del Chevalier le Cisne dirai la nontion, 
De lui et de son pere, Lotaires ot a non, 
Confaitement il vinrent et par quele raison, 
Et de quel terre il furent et de quel region. 

15 Par defors Hungerie, si com lisant trovon, 

Marcissoit uns roiames qui ert et grans et Ions, 
Si le tenoit uns rois qui molt par fu preudon : 
Roi Phelipe Tapelent tot cil de son roion. 
Feme ot sage et cortoise et de bele fa^on ; 

20 Et saci6s par vert6, si n'en dote nus hom, 
Ke de bone semence bon fruit en atent on. 
Li rois jut a sa feme par bone entention 
Et engenra .i. fil qui molt par fu preudon ; 
Tant le porta la dame que Damedeu fu bon, 

25 Et quant vint li termines de naistre renfan9on, 
Plus bele creature ne vit onques nus Hon. 
Al mostier le porterent par bone entention, 
Illuec le batiza uns evesques Simon, 
Ens el non de baptesme Lotaires ot a non. 

30 L'enfes crut et amende plus c'autres enfan^on ; 
Ce fu drois, qu'il estoit de bone estration. 



2 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNR, 

O EGNOR, or m'escout6s, por Deu le raemant, 

*^ Si vos dirai can9on bien faite et avenant, 

Ce est de la naissence .i. chevalier vaillant, 
35 Le Chevalier le Cisne, qui Dex par ama tant 

K'il fu a son service maint jor a son vivant. 

De lui et de son pere, de son aiol avant, 

Vos dironmes I'estorie, saci6s a esciant. 

Phelipes ot a non, qui molt par fu vaillant ; 
40 Ses fiux ot non Lotaires, qui molt fu avenant. 

L'enfes crut et amende, et molt par fu sa9ant : 

Molt par fu bels et sages ; quant avoit .xii. ans 

D'eski^s sot et de tables et d'autres estrumans ; 

Bien savoit cevalcier avoec les bohordans. 
45 Molt en fu li6s li peres, c'est drois, de ses enfans. 

Maladie le prist : quant ce vint a son tans 

Ke morir li convint, ce fu damages grans ; 

Le roi ensevelirent si home et si serjant, 

Enterr6s fu le jor, si ot dolor molt grant. 
50 Grant duel i demenerent sa feme et si parant, 

Molt furent deceii de segnor bel et gant ; 

Mais encor raront boin, se Deu vient a talant. 

Quant li deus fu rem6s de eel enterremant, 

Lotaires a parl6 a sen consellement ; 
55 Asseiirer se fait de trestote sa gent, 

Et de tos les barons a pris le sairement 

Ki son pere servoient a son conmandement ; 

Sauve Tonor sa mere, que de rien n'i mesprent. 

Li vall6s duit sa terre, si se fist hautement 
60 Coroner, a ses homes faire asseiirement. 

Tot 90U que ses pere ot tint il entirement, 

Ainc n'en laissa avoir plain pi6 estrange gent, 

Se il ne lor dona molt amiablement. 

Bien sot tenir sa terre et amer france gent ; 
65 Ses amis fait de eels qui furent si parent, 

Frans homes a assis garder son tenement ; 

Onques sers n'aproisma a son consellement, 

N'ainc ne fist a franc home nul deseritement, 

A veve nc a orfene ne a petit enfant. 

62 plain pie avoir — 64 tiere tenir si fist droit iugement — 65 fist — 66 
N 7 assis— -68 Nainc nama losengier felon ne souduiant — 69 wanting. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 3 

70 AT OLT tint en pais sa terre, c'ainc ni ot enconbrier, 

iVl N'ainques n'ala a marce o son voisin plaidier ; 

Si voisin le sentoient et orgellos et fier, 

Molt tint en pais sa terre, molt Torent li sien chier. 

A un jor prist ses ciens s'ala el bois chacier, 
75 Chevaliers maine o lui qui ierent si maisnier, 

Et en haute forest fait il ses rois chachier ; i"^ 

Apr^s les rois s*en vont li chien et li bernier 

Et al renc d'autre part ierent li liemier, 

Tant ont al6 cerkant for voie et for sender 
80 K'il ont lev6 .i. cerf si grant comme aversier ; 

.XI III. brances ot en son son cervelier ; 

II le chacent a force par abai de levrier. 

De chiens i ot .ii. muetes, nel porent detrier ; 

Ne pueent tant haper ne mordre ne pincier 
85 Ne li arcier tant traire as ars de cor manier 

Ne tot li veneor de lor espius lanchier, 

K'il onques le peiiscent verser ne trebucier. 

As rois en est venus, outre saut de legier ; 

Ne crient mais veneor, fors est de lor dangier. 
90 Fuit s'ent si lone qu'il n'ot mais nul cien abaier : 

Qui caut ? quant perdus est n'i a nul recovrier. 

Rois Lotaires seoit sor .i. ceval corsier, 

Ki le cerf porsivoit, en sa main ,i. espier. 

Tant le porsiut a force que vint a I'anuitier ; 
95 Tos se fu oubli6s por la bisse chacier 

Ne ne sot u il fu ne ne sot rcpairicr, 

Ne maison ne voit nule u il puist herbergier. 

El bois se met ariere desos .i. fou plenier. 

La prist herbergerie quant il dut anuider. 
100 Le frain oste au ceval, laist li paistre I'erbier, 

Et il le paist molt bien, car il en ot mesder ; 

Ne dormi ainc Lotaires, ains se prist a vellier. 

Son espiel et son cor et s'espee d'acier, 

Tot a mis dal6s lui, car il en ot mestier 
105 Por leu et por ferain u por autre aversier, 

Ke il le truise prest por lui com hom aidier. 

70 A grant pais tint sa tierc ainc — 71 a voissin en marce por plaid'r 
— 72 Car si uoissin le sieruet — 73 En pais tenoit — 76 fait 9rois cariier — 
77 le 9roi vont . . . biesier — 79 N fort voie et for--8i som le — 82 abai 
par hucier — 84 Nel porent . . . ne poindre ne — 88 9rois est venus si 
saut sus— JO q«^ not kien abaiier — 92 Rois orians — 93 puig— Q5 N Tost 
A T* — 96 Ne savoit . . . ne sen sot— 100 laille pestrc e Herb r — loi il i 
p. — 102 dormi pas li rois — 104 car sil en amest'r — 105 Q' il le true 
praist N se il en a mestier. 



4 NAISSANCE DU CHE V ALTER AU CYGNE. 

A SSES pensa li rois com horn qui seus estoit ; 

^^ Son ceval garde pres qui volentiers paisoit, 

S'espee et son espiel u il molt se fioit. 
no Li nuis passa issi desci que le jor voit, 

Adont ne li caut plus en quel pais il soit ; 

Met la selle et son frain si cevalce a esploit, 

Retorner quide ariere, venir a son destroit. 

Trespasse bos et landes, ne troeve qui I'anbit ; 
115 II n'ot cienne abai, bore ne castel ne voit. 

La caure leva grans qui forment I'agrevoit ; 

Devers .i. mont s*en va dont il tres bien verroit 

.X. Hues tot entor, se sor le mont pooit ; 

Ses cevals lase molt, car travelli6s estoit. 
1 20 II estoit miedis et la caure anuioit 

Et lui et son ceval ; li rois nient n'en pooit. i** 

Au pi6 de la montaigne uns bels caisnes seoit, 

Grans estoit et foillus et grant ombre faisoit ; 

Bien peiissent .Ix. chevalier sans destroit 
1 25 Seoir desous en I'ombre faire lor esbanoit, 

Et si ot un praiel ki tostans florisoit ; 

II voit et Tarbre et Tombre, Tore soef ventoit. 

Cil descent del ceval qui repos desiroit, . 

Le frain oste et la selle au ceval qui suoit ; 
130 Et li cevals se witre, car sa nature estoit, 

Dont saut sus et paist Terbe qui soef li flairoit 

Rois Lotaires s'en va a la fontaine droit 

Qui devers Oriant son sorgon enveoit. 

T A fontaine estoit bele et clere et delitouse ; 
135 ^"^ Al fons avoit gravele qui n*ert pas anuiouse, 

Onques Tigris n'en ot nule tant presciouse. 

Cil fluns Tigris coroit sor terre gravillouse, 

La gravele estoit d'or sel quierent gens wisose ; 

Mais iceste fontaine si est tant graciouse, 
140 II n'a gravele al fons ne soit molt vertuouse ; 

no Lanuit passa issi tant f\ue il le ior voit — in caut puis — 112 Mist 
spn frain j sa siele— 114 bos 7 haies ne trueue ki le uoit— 116 li greuoit 
— 117 Droit u's le — 118 .X. Hues enuiro se sus moter pooit — 119 ki t. — 
120 Ja . . . caure motoit— 121 wanting— 12}^ biel onbre — 124 Bien i 
peussent sir. — 125 7 iestre desous lonbre . . . estauoir — 127 li ues souef 
— 131 ki ml't souef— 133 Ki droit viers . . . euoioit — 134 Li — 136 A'' 
Onques tagus . , . A nule si— 137 tagus— 138 en iert dor . . . gent ou- 
souse — 139 N si est tant grauillouse A par est si grasiouse — 140 A'^ 
tant u. 



L 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 5 

Diamans.et metistes qui force ont mervellouse, 
Topaces, electories, qui tant est gentius cose — 
Toutes sont teles pieres qui cele aige ot enclose : 
N'i a nule entaillie ne nule imaginouse. 

145 Por 90U furent la mises, que nus qui boire en ouse, 
J a tant n'ert travelli^s que sa cars ne repose ; 
De giste ne de fievre n'ert ja acoisonouse. 
S'est horn qui eiie ait la male erite couse, 
S'en front let de cele aigue qui est tant bone couse, 

150 Sempres sera garis, ja n'ert tant angoissouse. 

A s'en vait rois Lotaires qui'st de bon escient, 
Al riu leve ses mains et son vis ensement ; 

Grant mestier en avoit car tot Tavoit sullent. 

Adont lava sa bouce qui de halle li fent, 
155 Et despoilla sa cote et vint sor Terbe al vent ; 

La s*est couci^s a terre sor I'erbe verdoiant, 

Et son cor et s'espee et son espiel devant. 

La s'endort si com hom qui le laste avoit grant : 

La nuit qui passee ert n'avoit dormi nlant. 
160 Ez vos une pucele cortoise et avenant, 

De la grande montaigne vint illuec descendant. 

Ne sai que sa biaut6 vos alaisse contant ; 

Bele estoit et bien faite et de parage grant, 

Et son manoir avoit ens el mont la devant, 
165 Et puceles laiens por faire son conmant ; 

Es cavernes del mont la ot abitement. 2* 

Venue en est aval el pre esbanoiant ; 

Voit le roi la gesir s'esgarde son sanblant. 

Si a coisi I'espee et le cor d'olifant 
170 Et I'espiel qui bons ert, noel6s a argant : 

Bien li sanble qu'il fust del parage vaillant. 

Souavet marce I'erbe, ne va mie noisant ; 

Voit le rai del soleil sor le vis descendant, 

Poise li que li halles li va son vis ardant 
175 (Neporquant hom hall6, jel tieng a avenant). 

141 A^ne A meture [?] — After 141 A inserts: Rubins /esmeraudes/ 
iaspes kist goutose — 143 Trestout st' gentil pieres ki eel aige a en- 
closet — 144 nesune entalle — 147 o cuisenosse — 148 Ne ia naura n9 hom 
sa car si de goutosse — 149 Sil uient a la fontaine ki si est gloriosse — 
150 ne soit garie ... si a — 151 va oricns — 153 le cors auoit susle»t — 154 
del harle — 155 desponlles. c. 7 v. sous larbre — 156 sous — 158 ki laste 
— 161 la haute — 166 mont auoit — 169 Voit le ceval corsu — 171 kil ert — 
173 sour so. 



6 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

Sa mance qu'il avoit a s'espaulle pendant 
Li estent sor le vis por le soleil raiant, 
Puis se retrait ariere vers le ruisel corant : 
Ne vaut pas quivriier le chevalier vaillant ; 
1 80 Tant atent qu'a dormi, puis li vint de devant. 

T OTAIRES s'esperi si rejeta la mance : 

^^^ " Dex," dist il, " rois del del, don6s moi hui quaance, 

Longement ai est6 en cest bos en esrance ; 

Encor sui jo assez, ce me sanble, en balance." 

185 Saine soi de la crois u il a grant fiance 
Et puis reclainnie Deu u il a sa creance ; 
Regarde la pucele, n 'avoit si bele en France. 
*' Pucele, si com Dex vos fist a sa sanblance, 
Si garde il vo cors et vo grant honcrance ; 

190 Ce vos vient de grant cuer et de grant sapiance 
Que vos m'av6s ci faite et aise et aombrance." 
•* Sire," dist la pucele, " bien sanbl^s de vaillance, 
Mais 90 wel jo savoir, par quele mesprisance 
Entrastes en mon bos ; ene fu 90U enfance ? 

195 Y^^ porrai, se jo wocl, molt tost avoir venjance ; 
Mi centisme arai tost a escu et a lance, 
Se je trovoie en vos ranprosne ne beubance. 
Ma terre est bien gardee si a grant porveance ; 
Jo ai homes assez qui sont de grant vaillance.'* 

200 Lotaires li respont par grant humeliance : 
*' Dame, com il aroit en vos plus d'onerance 
Et valor et bont6, et tant plus de soufrance 
Troverai jo en vos, jo i ai grant fiance, 
ler porsivi .i. cerf tote jor par enfance, 

205 Grant et fort et ramu de .xiiii.ime brance ; 
J el sivi jusc'al vespre si que par anuiance 
Ne m'en seuc retomer, ains fui en grant balance, 
Ke ors, leu u lion nen presiscent venjance 
De moi et de ma beste ; ce fust grant destorbance. 

210 Tote nuit fui el bois, Tespiel tine par le mance; 

176 pendandant — 177 sour so — 178 Puis si se traist — 179 uiolt p. 
cuuriier — 180 cait dormit puis si li uiet — 181 puis si senti la — 182 caace 
— 184 coumest uis en balances — 185 u toute est sesperance. — 189 Sire 
gart i. V. c. 7 uous doinst ounourace — 190 de hautece 7 — 195 puis bien 
. . . auoir xaW tost — 196 esc9 7 a lances— 197 reproce ne — 198 A'' A 
terre A garnie — 199 e ma poisance— 201 Dame si 9 il a — 202 ualor 7 
noblaice — 203 vous 7 iou i ai f. — 204 Jou . . . toute ior — 206 iuske al 
gues par pres q«^ for uoiace — 207 soc — 209 u de . . . grans mesestace, 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 7 

Et mes cevals paisoit herbe et foille en la brance. 2^ 

Quant Dex dona le jor et je vi Taube blance, 
Si restrains mon ceval si fiii mains en dotance ; 
Montai por cevalcier, aler a connissance. 
215 Ne sai quel part je sui, ne ne quier pas beubance ; 
Met6s moi al chemin, pucele de vaillance, 
Si porterai de vos bone novele en France/* 

" "T^ AMOISIALS, al respondre vos tieng auques a sage, 
'^ Moi sanble que ne dites ne orguel ne oltrage ; 

320 Et nonporquant, amis, nom^s moi vo parage. 
Li miens pere fu rob et de grant vasselage, 
.IX. cit6s m'a laisie quites en iretage ; 
De .1. castels ai jo le segnorage, 
Et quanqu'il i apent vient tot a mon servage, 

225 Et voiier et majeur tot rendent treiiage." 
Li danzels li respont qui fu de bon corage : 
" Damoisele, je sui d'un molt lontain manage. 
En cest bois ving chacier, si me torne a folage 
Quant ersoir me perdirent mi home en cest boscage." 

230 *' Amis," dist la pucele, " bien sanble a vo corage 
Que vos estes frans hom et de vaillant linage. 
Av6s encore prise feme par mariage 
U amie esgardee d*aucun roial parage, 
Que vos welli6s avoir a oissor vostre eage, 

235 Dont vos ai6s enfans nor is par segnorage ? *' 
** Naje, voir, damoisele, onques n'en oc corage : 
Jo nen euc onques feme, n'entendi a tel rage. 
En ciens et en oisiaus ai eii mon usage ; 
Et quant mestiers me fu si refis vaselage, 

240 Et s*ai gard^ ma terre c'on ne m*en fist damage. 

UIS qu'avons conmenci6 ci de feme a parler, 
Se vos n'avi^s ami, vaurieme nos amer : 
Por vo valor qui'st grans vos vaurai honorer 
Et tenir loiaument a moillier et a per, 
245 Et de toute ma terre ferai dame clamer ; 

211 ierbe fuelle — 212 uic — After 214 A inserts : Mais encor sui entres 
en grenor foruoiace — 215 part aler tant ai de maiskeace — 21^ dites des- 
roi ne nul — 225 7 iugeur 7 maiour — 226-28 wanting in A, iv fitch inserts : 
Ases ai signorie pucielle france 7 sa^e — 229 Mais kiersoir — 231 soiies 
— 235 Dont eussies A inserts : Ki tenist ap's v9 ure grant iretage — 236 
ni ai pas mo usage — 237 Neuc encore onques — 238 tV ai use mo eage— 
240 Si ai — 242 naues ami uoriesme — 243 quest — 244 oisor — 245 fairc. 



p' 



8 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

Et les enfans qu'avrons vaura? bien ireter." 

Et respont li pucele : " Bien le voel creanter, 

^ou que vos av6s dit ne fait a refuser ; 

Mais or vos plaise .i. poi de mes dis escoter : 
250 Se me prend^s a feme, por voir vos puis conter, 

Vostre linages ert espandus outre mer 

Et jusqu'en Orient le verra on raiiner." 

" C*est 90U/' ce dist li rois, " que tant puis desirer." 

*' Escoute encore, rois, si m'oras d'el parler : 
255 En la premiere nuit apr6s notre espouser. 

Que vauras vraiement a ma car deliter, 2^^ 

Jo te di par vert6 loiaument sans fauser 

Que tu de .vii. enfans me feras encarger : 

Li .vi. en ierent malle, et pucele a vis cler 
260 I ert li sietismes enfes, 90U ne puet trespasser. 

Lasse ! moi, j*en morrai de ces enfans porter. 

Et quel talens me prent que jo m*en doie aler 

La u il m'estavra de tele mort pener, 

Mais que teux destinee doit parmi moi passer ? 
265 Et m'estuet travellier et tel mort endurer 

Por le linage acoistre qui ira outre mer, 

Et qui la se fera segnor et roi clamer. 

Encor te vaurai jo autre cose conter : 

Cascuns de ces enfans aura cisne d*or cler 
270 El col d'une caaine que bien porra mostrer ; 

A tot 90 naistront il, jel vos di sans doter. 

Conmand6s les enfans par grant cure a garder ; 

Quel part que vos soi6s, u en terre u en mer 

U en pais u en guerre, vos en estuet pener." 

275 C\^ se teut la pucele quant ot dit son talent. 
^^ Rois Lotaires 01 molt bien tot son convent, 
Mais mervelle li sanble de eel anoncement, 
Comment tot 90 poroit venir entierement. 
II esgarde celi qui tot son cuer esprent, 

280 Promet li et otroie a amer loialment ; 

248 ne uel iou de ueer — 249 plaist — 251 Nostras 1. e. estendus— 252 
regner — 253 Cest cosse dist 1. r. q«tf ie.ml't puis anier — 255 souper [?] 
— 256 uoras gire a moi — 257 loiaumet par urete — 2^8 enfanter — 250 
erent fil 7 p. au — 260 t*stornr — 261-264 wanting-^'i^ acroistre — 268 
uerai — 269 cais e. a. signe — 270 col .i. caine ki — 271 naisteront ie uoiis 
d. s. fauser — 274 a grant cure g. — After 274 A inserts : 7 se uous cou 
ne faites a duel ueres torner — 275 ki ot — 276 Li rois oriiens lot oi mi't 
boinemet — 227 tel — 228 c*rtainemet— 280 iv Permet A o. samor 7 1. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. g 

Le menra avoec lui en sa terre a sa gent, 

Apr6s Tespousera com rois segnerilment. 

De I'esrer s'aparellent tost et isnelement. 

La pucele Elioxe apela ,i. sergent, 
285 Samonie, sa pucele, qui'st de bon escient : 

** Jo woel a vos parler, 9a ven6s erranment/' 

Cele ist de la montaigne tost et isnelement : 

" Je sui ci, damoisele, dites vostre talent." 

" Samonie, ensel6s moi de rice afeutrement 
290 Ma blance mule isnele, et met le frain d 'argent ; 

Le poitral qui est d*or et fais molt ricement 

Li laci6s a la sele qui est d'ivoire blanc ; 

Gard6s que soit ferree et deriere et devant, 

Et soient tot li fer u d'or fin u d'argent, 
295 Mes escrins, mes forgi6s, por porter ensement ; 

Et met6s i des reubes .vii. paire ensement, 

Et mes aornemens que vos ten6s sovent ; 

Si faites .i. soumier del palefi'oi ferrent. 

Vos meisme en prend6s tot a vostre talent." 
300 Samonie, la pucele, ot molt bien et entent 

Tot le voloir sa dame et son conmandement ; 2** 

Revint a la montaigne, fist aparellement 

Molt rice a oes sa dame, a son oes ensement. 

Prent .i. Train el tresor ovr€ d*or et d'argent, 
305 Li poitrals est d*or fin alum6s d*or luisent, 

La siele est si vaillans que .iiij. Venissent 

Ne Tesligascent mie de quanqu'il ont vaillant. 

Li ar9on et les alves sont d'un os d*olifant ; 

La soussiele en estoit d'un paile escarimant, 
310 Dusqu'a la terre en vont quatre langes batant. 

I'.le prent .ij. escrins, met ens son garniment, 

Dras de soie a vestir en grant cointoiement, 

282 lespoiisse (-1)— 28^ laler saparaut face hastiueniet— ^//^r 283 
A inscf fs : Car pour nioi st' mi home ce dist li rois dolet — 284 Elyous- 
se — 285 S.imaine — After 285 A inserts : Samaine caiienes ne demores 
noient— 287 .s.* nul delaiemet— 288 90131—289 Samaine afeutres— 290 
Ma bcnine blance mulle metes le— 291 Li poitraus i soit mis as cloqiietis 
pendant — 292 siele diiiore resplendant— 294 Li fier en soient dor li clau 
soient dargent — 295 Mais e. aportes afaities ensement — 296 de reubes 
.vii. paires seulement— 299 V9 mimes prendes .i. 1.-302 Revient a. 1. 
m. fait laparaillemet- -^o^ auec sa — 304 tresor a pieres ki resprent — 
306 estoit si rice que .iiii.isme piersat — 307 Pas ne iesgeroient de — 309 
iVsorsiele — 310 en 01—311 ses escrins m. e. ses garninies— 312 g. cort 
ricemet. 



IQ NAISSANCE DV CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

Une rice coroie a pieres qui resplent, 

,XII. piereg i a, cascune ki resprent, 
315 C'Adans avoit collies en .i. ruisel corant 

En paradia u Dex Tavoit fait ja manant. 

Afices et aniaus, ce n'oblia noient : 

Boistes a ongemens qui sont souef flairant, 

Linalo6s ass6s et ciers atornement ; 
520 Tot 90 mist es escrins et carga sor ferrent 

A Tajue qu'ele ot d'un vertuos sergent ; 

Ele ot ausi meismes .i. ceval avenant. 

Quant ot aparellig, vint a sa dame errant 

T lOXE fist monter li rois par cortoisie, 

323 ^^-^ Et il cevalce en coste a senestre partie ; 
Lioxe a aregn6, par le resne le guie, 
Et Samonie cevaice avoec por conpaignie ; 
Les le bos cevalcierent par une praerie, 
Por adrecier lor voie dont li rois ne set mie, 

330 Tant ont al6 le sente les le voie en hermie 
Ke li rois voit les tors de sa grant manandie, 
S'en i avoit ne mais c'une Hue et demie. 
Or a tant cevalci^, pres est d*une hucie, 
Met le cor a sa bouce dont douce estoit Toie ; 

335 Si a son6 le cor que tote est estormie 
La cit^s et la tors, si saut sus la maisnie. 
** 06s la mon segnor," cascuns d'els tos s'escrie, 
" Months, alons encontre si li faisons joie." 
Si font il com il dient, poignant a une hie,. 

340 Saluent lor segnor et il lea en merchie. 
Sa mere viei\t encontre et il si Ta baisie> 
Et tot li chevalier a molt grant conpaignie. 
Rois Uotaires lor dist : " Segnor, ne faites niie 
Joie ne feste a moa^ maia a ma doce amie. 

345 Jo Tainc tant que 90U est et ma cose et ma vie, 

313 courone a p. ki resprent — ^314 cascune a u'tu grant — 316 ia fait — 
^17 noublie — ^^18 N^ o.,A 2, ongemet. — 310 A^/ abosnes A 7 c'rmuske 
liant— 321 A ]a\e—A/fer 321 w imerts: Hanas i ot dor fin 7 rices 
coupes tat Cuelliers 7 escuieles rice uasselemat Q'tous en fust cargies 
li bois soumr sabiat — 322 Ele meisme auoit — 324 Adont la fait moter li 
rois par cortresie — After 325 A inserts : II a pris son espiel 7 le cor 
a loie — 326 Eliousse apiela p. 1. r. lenguie — 327 A^ Sadonie A 7 la 
dame cevaiice o lui par cortoisie — 338 toute une p. — 329 le voie que li 
rois ne sot — 330 les le bos — 333 ont ceuauciet a pres dune — 334 dqj^ ^%]^^\ 
^;j36 cors— 337 daus lor escrije-r^ jp, Moptotts-r34-i vw^-^WiijOiiBi/. 



s 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. \\ 

Jo Tainc sor tote rien, nel vos celerai mie." 3* 

Adont fu la pucele hautement recoillie, 

De tos les chevaliers jentement conjoie. 

Des palefrois descendent, vont en la tor antie ; 
350 Sonent gigles viieles et font grant melodie. 

Rois Lota ires sor tos les enforce et ale, 

Bien tient .c. chevaliers avoec lui de m«isnie. 

II mande dus et princes qu'a lui par conpaignie 

Viegnent tot a sa cort et si verront s'amie 
355 Qu'il vaudra prendre a feme, ne demoera inie. 

A mere voit Tafaire et Taparellement, 
Bien demostre en son fait tot son proposement ; 

Des noces s'aparelle et en mostre sanblant. 

D'une part Ten a trait si li dist son talent : 
360 " Bels fiux, que penses tu ? nel fai sifaitement ; 

Tu ne prenderas feme ensi soudainement : 

Jo te querai oisor tot al los de no gent. 

Ci pres maint Anotars qui a grant tenement, 

Rois est de grant puissance s*a maint rice parent ; 
365 Et Michael le due et Rodain I'amirent : 

Andoi sont si cosin germain, mien escient ; 

Icil a une fille, damoisele vaillent, 

J el te ferai avoir ; maintien toi sagement" 

'* Que dites vos, ma dame ? tot 90U n'i a noient ; 
370 Jo nel lairoie mie por plain .i. val d'argent 

Ke n'espeuse Elioxe, la pucele al cors gent ; 

Por que Dex le me done, jo nel refus noient 

Jo sui rices assez, car j'ai grant tenement ; 

Jo ne crien mes voisins por guerre qu'il movent ; 
375 II n'ont parent^ nule qui me viegne a talent. 

Ceste est et bele et sage et de bon escient ; 

Jo Taim, jel voel avoir, jo Tavrai loialment." 

'* Bels fils," 90 dist le mere, *' tu ne prises nient 

^ou que jo te di ci de mon consellement" 
380 Quant assez ont parl6, a tant se departent. 

346 riens par deu le fil marie — 350 ghigles 7 harpes 7 — 352 auec caus 
—353 7 9tes o lui par— 354 Kil uiegnet a— 355 prendre fenme— 356 La 
"-357 t'stout proposemet— 358 s'aparellet tost 7 isnielemSt— t6o ne fai 
— 361 prendras pas fenme isi soutainemet — 362 ta j^ent — 363 Anotaires 
-7365 Tu marcisses o lui 7 soudant lamirans— 170 .1. uau— 372 Puis . . . 
ni a refusement— 374 ne douc mes uoissin de g<wroier noient — jnh 
Iceste est boune 7 s. 7 de biel— J77 voiremet— 378 gen ai mo cuer doiet 
—379 Ne tu ne feras rien— 380 Atant st' departi andoi del parlemet. 



L 



12 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE. 

Lotaires aparelle ses noces festeument ; 

II mande les fiev^s de tot son tenement 

K'il soient a ses noces devant li en present, 

Et mande .i. arcevesque qu'il tenoit a parent : 
385 Gerars avoit a non. Cil i vient gentement 

A x. cevalceeurs ; molt maine bele gent. 

A cort vient al perron, del palefroi descent ; 

Vient al rol sel salue, li rois salus li rent. 

Main a main s^entretienent et vont el pavement 
390 Seoir sor une coute d'un vermel bougerent ; 

La li dist son afaire, ne li.cela nient. 3^' 

L'arcevesques li loe, puis qu'il en a talent 

De feme avoir o lui, sel prenge loialment. 

Et li rois li respont: *' Par Deu omnipotent, 
395 De lone Tai amefiee si li ai en covent 

Loiaut6 de tenir par non d'espousement" 

A feste est plenteive et grans et segnoris ; 
La assanblent li prince de partot le pais, 

Si vienent a la feste le roi qui'st lor amis ; 
400 Molt ot gent el palais qui fu de marbre bis. 

La sont li jogleor, cantent lais, notent db, 
^ La lor donent li prince cotes et mantels gris ; 

Ki set dire u canter bonement est ois. 

En la place as vall6s et as escus vautis 
405 Desregnent Tuns vers Tautre lor valor et lor pris, 

Hurtent, luitent as bras ; s'uns en ciet s*a haus cris. 

Si ne puet eschaper sans molt grant hueis. 

D'autre part sont li ors et li cien, .viii. u .x., 

Ki la refont grant joie et grant pesteleis ; 
410 D*autre part sont li singe qui lor font les fans ris. 

Tout issi a la feste s*est cascuns entremis 

Des plus bels gius a faire qui lor furent apris. 

El demain quant li jors fu auques esclarcis 

Et rois Lotaires est et par^s et vestis 

415 Et li grans pules est en la sale acoisis, 

381 ricemet — ^382 A^ses f. — 385 Segars . . . noblemet — 386 N 7 .c, A 
ceuauceures si— 388 Vint . . . i! son salu li rent — 389 si u. — 300 7 tout 
son ereinent — After 390 A inserts : Trestout li a 9te ne li cefa noient 
— 394~5 wanting — 397 plentiueus — ^401 9tent dis — ^403 sot . . . fu — 404 la 
sale ot urarles ki as escus uotis — ^405 Deraisnent — ^406 Lautre luitent 
a. b. suns ciet si a grans c*s — 408 li ciens u des ors — 409 Ki laiens font 
grant noisse 7 grant pelesteis — ^411 Trestout si a — ^412 wanting— ^\^ 7 
caucies 7 — 415 pulles est el palais reuiertis. 



450 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE, 13 

L*arcevesques s'en va au mostier S. Felis 

Et s'est segnerilment a Tautel revestis. 

Li rois i est venus, bien a .Ix. et dis 

De chevaliers, haus homes, princes, dus et marcisj 
420 Ki tot ierent vaillant, si les tient a amis. 

La pucele adestra li princes Anseis, 

Et uns dus qui ot non Antelmes li Petis. 

Au mostier le menerent devant saint crucefis ; 

La font lor orisons, puis si sainent lor vis. 
425 L'arcevesques demande, qu*il estoient la quis. 

Rois Lotaires respont : " Bels sire, ciers amis, 

Je woel que me don6s Elioxe al cler vis 

Et si le m 'espouses tot al vostre devis ; 

Voiant vos li donrai, en non Deu douelis, 
430 La tierce part del regne dont jo sui poestis.*' 

Et respont Tarcevesques : ** Tot 90 est bien assis.** 

Dont a prise Elioxe par les dois c'ot vautis. 

Si le dona Lotaire, et li S. Esperis 

Lor doinst joie et honor a lor vie tosdis. 
435 Apr6s prent .i. anel qui estoit d'or masis, 

Si li a mis el doit in nomine pairis 3*^ 

Et el non del S. Fil et del S. Esperis. 

Puis a chant6 la messe, et il fu bien 01s : 

Cil jors fu solenels partot et festeis. 
440 Apr^s messe conmence feste et bohordeis : 

On lieve les quintaines la u on fiert tosdis, 

Et jogleor i cantent et lais et sons et dis. 

Les viandes i sont en tos lius plentels ; 

Li rois done mervelles, sig^latons et samis, 
445 Escarlates et vers, peli^ons vair et gris ; 

N*i remaint a doner palefrois ne roncis : 

Nes d'or, coupes d'argent, c'est poi, ce li est vis. 

II done fi6s et terres a ses mellors amis, 

N'i a nul qui li ruist qui en voist escondis. 



OIET jors dura la feste qui bien fu conmencie, 
^^ Mais a Tuitisme jor fu auques departie ; 



4173! most'r — 418 .xl. dis — 410 de princes de marcis— 420 wanting— - 
421 uns p. — 422 antielmes — ^423 fen . . . le c. — 427 mespouses — 428 me 
dounes — 429 el non de iesu crist — ^430 resne-r-431 icou est — 433 doune 
le roi— 434 vies— 437 esperit — 438 fait le seruicc — 439 par trestout le 
pais — 440 9mecent hestes 7 bohordis — ^441 lis lievent . . . todis — 442 
Li ... 7 sons 7 les — 445 mantiaus pelicons gris — ^446 Ne — 447 7 grans 
coupes — 449 ki li soit escondit — ^450 que — 451 witisme. 



14 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

En lor liu s*en reva li grans cevalerie. 

Rois Lotaires remaint ensanble sa maisnie^ 

.LX. chevaliers de molt grant segnorie. 
455 Dont vint a Elioxe, sa douce ciere amie : 

'* Bele suer," dist li rois, " la feste est departie 

Des sorvegnans qui vinrent, qui nos ont fait jcMe. 

Or conmence la nostre, Dex nos soit en aie ; 

Desore mais ensanble deliterons no vie/' 
460 II se coucent ensanble quant nuis fu enserie, 

IVune cars conut Tautre, Nature nes oublie ; 

L'uns rent Tautre son droit et font lor cortoisie, 

Qu'amors a estor6 entre ami et amie ; 

Quant ont lor volenti et lor joie aconplie, 
465 Si n'est mais damoisele, ains est dame joIe 

Elioxe la bele, qui Dex doins segnorie. 

Andoi gisent en bras, ele s'est endormie ; 

Dont a songi6 .i. songe dont molt est esmarie» 

Qu'elle gisoit coverte d'un espials de Rousie 
470 En .i. lit bien ovr6 a ouevre triforie, 

Li lis estoit covers de roses en partie, 

Des le moiti6 aval tos li lis enrougie, 

L'autre moiti^s amont est de lis enflorie. 

Es roses vers les pi6s ot .vij. pumes mucies, 
475 Pumes de jxiradis que Deus a en baillie ; 

Ains hom ne vit si beles qui fust en mortel vie. 

Cele cose a sa mere ens es roses coisie, 

Toutes .vij. li toloit et enbloit par envie : 

As .vi. colpoit les keues et la setisme oblie ; 
480 Nes giete mie puer, molt s'en est bien gaitie, 

Mais les pumes jeta en une desertie. — 3^ 

A cest mot s*esvella Elioxe s*escrie : 

" Lieve sus, rois Lotaires, por Deu, aie ! ale ! '* 

Rois Lotaires se lieve, celi a enbracie : 
485 '* Saini& vos, bele suer, que Dex vos beneie^ 

Et vostre ame met6s tos eels en conmandie 

Ki baillent le cors Deu en la messe serie ; 

452 tieres_sen ua la — 453 a mesnie escarie — After 453 A inserts \ 
Non por qnt si auoit o lui grant ^pagnie — ^456 wanting— ^(i2 trestout 
par cortoisie — 464 de lor iu— 468 Si — 469 ^*te — ^470 a ouere — ^472 De — 
473 A^lc florie A de lie enflorie — ^477 coisies — ^478 Toutes .vii. h enbloit 

far enuie (-3) — 480 gieta i>as en uoies — 482 en doute si sescrie — 483 
.ieve sus orient — 484 Rrois oriens se lieve si la fort enbracie — 485 
Caues uous — ^486 Vostre afaire en ceus en coumandie (-2). 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 15 

Porqti'estes vos, ma douce, issi espaorie? *• 

Celc a mal en sa teste,*tote Va estordie, 
490 El ne desist .i. mot, ki K donast Pavie. 

Cil le tint en ses bras comme feme espasmie, 

II Tacole et si I'a en la bouce baiste ; 

Cele revint en sens, s'a memoire coillie. 

" Douce suer," dist li rois, "jo vos ai enbracie; 
495 Que vos est avenu ? nel me cel6s vos mie : 

Ne soi6s pas honteuse envers moi, douce amie." 

" Songe, sire, et fantosme m'ont ma teste espartie, 

Mais a Deu conmanc jou et mon cors et ma vie* 

Jel di a Damedeu et a Sainte Marie 
500 Et a trestos les sains qu'el ciel ont segnorie ; 

Torn^ le moi a bien, si fer^s cortoisie. 

Mes lifi ert tos espars de flors en colorie, 

Et jo euc en ces roses .vij. cosetes mucie ; 

C'estoient .vij. pumetes dont Tabre fu florie 
505 La u Adans mert ja la premiere partie ; 

Et il en fu jet^s par sa grant felonie. 

Se mes ot on tolus par molt grant estoutie, 

Et cil quis en porta retint en sa baillie 

Les keues, et les pumes jeta en terre ermie, 
510 Que mais n'en fust parole veiie ne oie ; 

Les .vi. en jeta puer, et le sieme j'oublie. 

E ! Deus, que pact ce estre et ce que senefie?*' 

*' Dame," ce dist li rois, ** ne vos esmai^ mie, 

Dex vos confortera, qui tot a en baillie. 
515 .VII. pumes sont .vii. fil, dont Dex vos en deiivre ; 

S'il est aucuns malvais qui de vos ait envie, 

N'oubli^s pas por 90 a mener bone vie ; 

Soi6s bone aumosniere et tostans bien garnie, 

S'onor6s sainte eglise et le sainte clergie ; 
520 Se ve6s de povre home la car mesaaisie, 

Tant li faites por Deu qu'elle soil raj^mplie ; 

Et se vos ve<§s povrj? qui |i fains enaigrie, 

Viande li don^s tant que soit rasasie ; 

^ Ot . . . lot estormie— 490 Q' ne— 40? es|narie~-4p? Si (acole sel 
f)ajsse & puis si lasaissie— 493 repceht ^6}) ciief— ^^ ai ^n bajn>err-49§ 
n^ iji^ cgJgFfi4QS?* Son j;ie* %. f festosmes ma ma L espaiie— 502 estoit 
^spairi *de rose AT ert— 50^ pumetes A^ mucies— 504 Cou estoient .vii. 
pun dot larbre estoit fuelie — 505 feie — 507 Ses mes a on — 508 ki les 
porta — 515 .vii. don — 516 cou ait — 518 9 t9tas bien en die — 519 Ounores 
... 7 t'toutc— 521 aessie — 522 uees poure home que li famine aigne— 
523 aessie. 



i6 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

Cels qui por Deu vos prient por Deu facias ale, 
525 Si ar6s grade en terre et en del glorie et vie. 

T^OUCEMENT apaia Lotaires sa moillier, 4* 

^^ Qui molt ert effre6 de le ente songier ; 

II le baise et acole et fait tot son dangicr 

Por la freor del songe del tot entr'obliier. 
530 Quant tant orent jeii jors prist a esdairier, 

Les jentius dames vindrent au lit esbanoier. 

Les autres font les bains por la dame aaisier, 

Del tot li font ses aises tant com ele a mestier ; 

Et li rois est lev6s, dont vindrent chevalier. 
535 En la chapele au roi fist on aparellier 

Et revestir .i. prestre por le devin mestier. 

Li rois i est venus por Damedeu proier, 

Et tot si conpaignon o lui por festoier. 

Li prestre est revestus u il n*ot qu'ensegnier ; 
540 Messe del S. Espir qui tot puet consellier 

A conmenci^ en haut, s'avoit fait sohaucier ; 

De canter et de lire fait ofise plenier. 

Li canbrelens le roi qui avoit le mestier 

Aporta son segnor .iij. ofrandes d'or mier, 
545 Ce furent .iij. bezant, c'est ofrande a princier ; 

Et a cascun qui est la venus al mostier 

A don6 autresi .i. estrelin denier ; 

Et li rois est al6s I'ofrande conmencier, 

Et li autre s'en vont a lui aconpaignier. 

550 T^ONT a on aport6 .ij. bacins d'argent cler, 
^^ U li capelains va por ses dois respaumer ; 
Puis a fait el calise pain et vin manister, 
Et aigue, com drois est, avoec le vin meller. 
II entre en son service le cors Jhesu sacrer. 

555 Rois Lotaires qui la ert venus por orer, 
II est agrnoilli^s por mius humelier, 
Et 5i"S mains lieve en haut si conmence a penser 
Et dire de bon cuer por Damedeu loer : 
" Dex, qui plus i6s poissans c'on ne puist deviser, 

524 faites— 525 ciel 7 e uie — 527 kil ot ente songie— 528 paor d. s. kil 
uiolt cntrelaisie — 530 geu kil pnst — 533 coume en a— 534 viencnt— 536 
le priestre — 538 A^h c. — 541 sauois a essauc'r — 542 Del canter fait ofisse 
7 del lire mest'r — 543 (juen — 544 A porte— 547 doiine pour ofrir .i.e. 
dorm'r— 549 o lui— 550 aportes— 551 espaum'r— 552 aportcr— 556 por 
sorison crier — 557 po^dameldeu ore' — 559 est. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 



17 



560 Qui nostre premier pere por ton non aorer 

Mesis en paradis, si li donas a per 

Et a moillier Evain por ensanble abiter ; 

Diables i ala por aus desireter^ 

Mangier lor fist le fruit dont ne durent goster ; 
565 Adont s*entreconnurent et virent nu ester, 

D'un figier prisent foilles por lor cars, esconser ; 

Et tu i alas, Sire, a eus vausis parler : 

'* Adans, u i6s al6s ? vien 9a, ne te celer.** 

Dist Adans : *' Je sui ci, si m*a fait meserrer 
570 Eve, que me donas a moillier et a per." 

*' Por 90U que mon conmant t'as si fait trespasser, ^ 

Or t'en iras," dist Deus, " en autre terre ester ; 

De tes mains t'estavra desor mais laborer, 

Et Evain ta moillier en dolor enfanter/' 
575 Mort furent ambedoi, si les estut aler 

En infer u nus horn ne pot ainc reposser. 

Apr6s lui en convint tos ses enfans aler, 

Kain, Abel et autres que jo ne sai nomer ; 

Noe et Abrehan, Moyset al vis cler, 
580 Tons les fils Ysrael, que on ne puet nonbrer ; 

Et Jess6 et David et Salemon le ber. 

Dex, il t*en prist pities del dann6 restorer, 

La tiue gent vausis de torment ramener, 

Sagement le fesis por deable enganer ; 
585 Dex, tu fesis ton fil en une feme entrer 

Par Tangle Gabriel, qui li vint a porter 

Ton message en I'orelle, et el le valt graer ; 

La parole qu'il dist tu li fesis entrer 

Par I'orelle ens el cuer et del cuer encarner : 
590 Cele cars devint hom, ainc ne s'en pot vanter 

Horn qui a li peiist carnelment deliter; 

^o fu contre nature, n'ainc ne s'en valt clamer 

Nature, dont fesis tot le siecle estorer. 

Ele sent tant de bien, bien le valt creanter. 

563 7 diables i uint — ^64 dusent — 565 Adonqurs se ronnurtt 7 v. 
niieste — 566 esgre' — 567 Fu uenis a eus — 568 g:arde ne me celer — 571 
mas tout f. — 572 errer — 573 desteura ore m. — 574 a d. — 575 Puis moru- 
rent andoi— 576 ais retorner — 577 A. eus lor c. I. les— 578 Cainc abiel 
7 les autres — 580 irael que il — 581 Ft iosep — After 581 A inserts'. 
Daniel le profete ki ml't fist aloer — 582 danneur racat'r — 5.S3 delivrer 
— 585 u'gcne e. — 586 te u. — 587 uot — 592 uot — 593 destiner— 594 Ele i 
sot. 



i8 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

595 Cele cars devint horn, que la fesis entrer 

Sens car assamblee, se t'i vausis celer 

En envers le diable por lui a dominer ; 

Car se il te seiist, ja ne t'osast tenpter 

Ne ne t'osast trair ne faire en crois pener ; 
600 S'il nel te fesist faire, horn ne I'osast penser, 

Ne nus ne nos venist de la mort racater. 

Dex, tu te covris si qu*il ne te pot viser, 

Ne Juif ne diable ne porent tant tanter 

C'onques en toi eiist soume, non al parler. 
605 Sire, en infer alas por les portes quasser, 

Tu en entras laiens por tes amis jeter, 

Et Adam et Abel, eel legier baceler, 

Noe et Abrehan qui tant pot desirer 

Que tu venisces la por els descaaner ; 
610 Et .c. mile milliers que jo ne sai nomer. 

Sire, 90U fesis tu, bien le sai sans d outer ; 

D'illuec dedens tier9 jor fesis apert et cler 

Ke tu estoies Dex et fesis susciter 

La car de mort a vie que tu laisas pener. 
615 De ta surrexion puet on assez parler, 

Ki les tesmoins en out 01 sovent soner : 4^ 

Marien Madelaine, Pieron le claceler 

Et les .ii. pelerins qui mal vaurent aler, 

Et eels que tu rovas a destre part jeter 
620 La roit ; por ses poisons pres fu del depaner. 

De ta surrexion ne doit nus hom douter ; 

Tu alas et venis tes amis conforter, 

Ki ne s'osoient pas as Juiis demostrer. 

Al jor d'Asention vausis el ciel m outer. 
625 Tes amis n'oblias, ains les vausis tenser. 

La u ierent ensamble qu'il n'osoient parler, 

Trestos li plus coars devint hardis et ber ; 

Sains Pieres por I'ancele n'osa .1. mot soner, 

Devint li plus hardis, ainc puis ne valt cesser ; 
630 II vint al cief del mont por le non Deu crier ; 

Prisons ne cartre oscure ne li pot estoper, 

595 e« cui tu uos e. — ^5^7 Q' 9tre le diable pour lui adotriner — 598 ti 
s.— 5Soo wantingSo^ iuis . . . deuisser— 606 i e. — 607 gentil b.— -608 
ml't peurent desirer— 610 .c. millr's des autres— 611 fauser — 612 Dil- 
luegues au tierc^^i4 Ten cors de— 616-621 wanting— 62^ que\ ciel 
vosis motcr— 626 La uinrewt tou e.— 630 mode — 631 ne parteure. 



NAJSSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 19 

La bouce ne desist 90 que cuers puet penser. 
Dex, si com 90 fu voirs c*on te puet reprover 
Toutes ces grans mervelles que m'as 01 conter, 

635 Et jo le croi sans faille de bon cuer et de cler, 
Si me doinses tu, Dex, Elioxe ma per 
En cest siecle mortel tel vie demener 
Que tu daignes nos ames en ton conduit mener, 
Et sustance en cest siecle por nos honors salver ; 

640 Et le fruit de son ventre li laises tel garder 
Que ele en soit delivre por sa vie salver, 
Que on en puist le fruit en fons rengenerer ; 
Et le songe qu'a fait done en bien deviner. 
Dex, tu le nos otroies, qui nos as a garder. 

645 T I rois Lotaires a finee Torison, 

^^ II a lev6 sa main si a saini6 son fron, 

Si fait crois de sor lui a Deu benei9on. 

A eel point dona pais et asolution 

Li clers qui a Tautel fist ministration. 
650 On parcanta la messe, ne targa s*un poi non , 

Li chapelains a fait del beneir son don 

De son calise d*or entor et environ, 

Et li rois se saina des le pi6 jusqu'en son, 

Desci c'al bas ortel qu'il tenoit sor le jon, 
655 Et del senestre espaulle dusc'al destre mohon. 

Dont s'en vont chevalier en la ssile a bandon, 

Si conmence la joie entor et environ ; 

Chevalier et sergant, jogleor et gar9on, 

Tant maintienent la feste, cascuns en a son don. 

660 T T N jor sist en la canbre li rois, s*est porpens6s ; 

^^ Ses giestes et ses fais a trestos record6s : 4** 

N'i remaint uns afaires qui ne soit ramembr^s, 
Comment ses manages avoit est6 troves, 
Et comment ele dist quant il estoit priv6s 

665 De li premierement, qu'il avoit engendr^s 

633 9me cest uoirs ^ue moes rame«bre* — 634 moes ra9tcr— 635 fin c. 
— 636 doune biau sire — 638 armes— 640 sil v9 plaist si gard* — 641 Q*le 
se puist encore a honor deliurer — 642 Et con en . . . rej?enerer — 643 
denner — 644 ki tout as asauue' — 645 define sorisson— -646 si se fist 
benicon — 647 wanting— d^ Apries le douna-^50 Or part cante le 
messe ni t. se p. n.— 653 Le roi saina par grant deuossion (-2)— -654 
Del ortail de son piet deseure le me«ton— ?« wanting— ^^ 7 la ioie 
5>nie«ce la sus ens el doign6--658 N A Ch r s. (-i)--5559 Tout— 661 
lestres . . . ramc«bres — 662 remest nus . . . rccordes — 664 wanting-^ 
665 La nuit. 



20 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE. 

.VII. enfans tos ensanble ; ses cors seroit fin6s 

Al tenne de .ix. mois, quant seroit delivr^s. 

De tos ic6s afaires s'est li rois record6s ; 

Encore en i ot .i. qui n'est mie obli^s, 
670 Que cascuns des enfans estroit encaan^s 

El col d'une caaine, a tot 90 seroit n^s. 

II ne set s'il a nul des enfans engendr^s, 

Por i^ou vaura il li termes soit cont6s 

En mois et en semaines et en jors tos nom^s, 
675 Que ne soit uns sels jors qui en soit trespasses 

Des le jor que il primes prist de li delit^s ; 

Por 90U est plus souvent en mason demor^s, 

Ne cevalce pas tant com il a fait d'as6s ; 

Si quident si voisin que il soit asot^s 
680 Et que sa terre prenge qui vaura, de tos les. 

Mais de 90U que il pensent est il assez rem6s. 

T T NS rois paiens, Gordoces, a sa terre envaie 

^^ Et degast6 sa marce par feu et par bruie ; 

Tot maine a son destroit, aignels et bergerie, 
685 Vilains met en prison, il nes espargne mie ; 

Fors des castels a tote la terre mal baillie. 

Li clains s'en vient al roi et il molt s'engramie ; 

11 a jur6 son cief que ensi n'ira mie 

De 90U qu'il li a fait et sa terre bruie 
690 Et ses homes men6s par sa grant estoutie, 

Et les avoirs tolus ; n'en perderont demie, 

Trestot I'estavra rendre desi qu'a une alie. 

Mais il ne set qu'il face, que molt est aprocie 

Li gesine Elioxe qui est sa ciere amie. 
695 Li termes estoit pres, nel pot alongier mie ; 

.IIJ. semaines i ot, en doute ert de sa vie ; 

En balance ert ses cors de faire une aramie 

Envers le roi Gordoce qui'st plains de felonie, 

U il atende Tore sa feme qui Ten prie. 

666 se coil iert uerites — 667 ques^tn doit deliurer — 668 pojpenses — 
669 wanting — 670 seroit — 671 col .1. — 673 tout cou — 674 denomes— 675 
Si que uns tous sens iors ni soit ia — 676 sest a li abitcs — 679 Cou dient 
. . . est — 680 Q' sa tiere uora prenge ent de tous les — 681 pense en est 
—682 g'ad oces — 683 enuie — 684 7 maine en — 685 maine--686 del cas- 
tiel . . . mesballie — After 686 A inserts \ As vilains a tolu ml't de 
gaegnerie — 687 vint — 688 {\uen si nira il--69o a si grat — 692 de si a — 
694 La — 695 wanting — 697 a aramie — 699 leure i\ue sa fenme li prie. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 21 

700 II le met a raison, car grans destrois I'aigrie : 

** Conselli6s moi, ma douce, grant mestier ai d'aie ; 
Jo ai est6 9aiens por vos en grant partie, 
Que jo ne ceval^ai ne ma cevalerie ; 
Ici voloje atendre veoir la segnorie 

705 Del fruit que vos port^s, que Dex a en baillie. 

Or m*angoisse de^a Gordoces de Palie, 5* 

Si me destruit ma terre et met en desceplie 
Mes homes et mes gens dont li cuers m'asoplie ; 
G'irai vers lui a force et ma grans os banie, 

710 Et se jo li puis faire conperer s'estoutie, 

De sa gent ferai plaine ma grant cartre en ermie, 
Prisons et raen^ons. Tot en vo conmandie 
Jo vos lairai ma mere, dame Matrosilie, 
Qu'ele penst, del tot soit vo volent^s conplie ; 

715 Jo li pri com ma mere, rien ne vos entroblie, 
Et s'ele vos cbrouce, mal feroit, et ma vie 
Seroit mais a tos jors a son oes defenie. 
" Mere, je vos en pri " (joint ses mains s'umelie, 
Baise les mains sa mere, moult doucement larmie), 

720 " Por Deu, ma doce dame, or pens^s de m'amie ; 
Quant jo venrai de Tost et ma jente maisnie, 
Si ferons grant baudor et grant feste joie, 
Et on m'aportera .i. fil par segnorie 
Que j'avrai aussi cier com mon cors et ma vie." 

725 T^ LIOXE a 01, qui le cuer ot dolent, 

^^^ Et le plaint et le plor et le dolousement 
Que fait li rois Lotaires, et ele li consent. 
Ele Ten apela, si li dist belement : 
" Sire, grant duel av6s de no department, 

730 Volentiers demori6s, bien voi, a vo talent ; 
Vos ir^s en la marce si conduir6s vo gent, 
Car se vos lor fal6s n*ont nul secorement. 
Por Deu, proi6s vo mere qu'ele n'oblit noient, 
Et por la vraie crois que quierent peneent, 

700 A^ grant A que gras besoins — 701 que mest'r — 702 nil't grant — 703 
ne fis c. — 705 ait--7o8 ma gent^-709 & a grat — 710 sa follie — 711 cartre 
h'mie — 712 raencoat. e. no — 713 matabrulie — 714 Q*le pense de uous 
uos uolentes enplie — 715 9me a mere riens ne U9 9tredie — 716 7 se vos 
corecoit mans, seroit e>i sa vie — 717 de mamdr departie — 710 iointes 
niais — 719 7 sor ses mais la'mie— r72o wanting-~'j22 baudoire — 72^1 que 
— 727 rois a li que ele — 728 wanting — 729 mo — 730 iel uoi — ^31 si aiaeres 
— 732 les falies n. n. radosemeift — 733 dites uo — 734 wanting. 



22 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

735 C^" ^ue de moi naistra qu'ele gart bonement ; 

Mestier avra encore, se Deu vient a talent, 

Et els et autre gent, s'il vivent longement" 

La mere vint a tant, ne s'atarga noient, 

Si a dit a son fil molt amiablement : 
740 " Fiux, jo t'ainc autretant com moi, mien escient, 

Et qui tu ameras, amerai le ensement ; 

Se j'ai de toi neveu, joie et devinement 

Avra tos jors de moi, et esbanoiement." 

'* Dame, dist Elioxe, cil qui fist Moysent 
745 Vos rende le bienfait que vos fer^s Tenfant ; 

Mes cors vos est livrez, al Deu conmandement ; 

Sovent est avenu, meres ont tel torment 

Que de vie trespassent a lor enfantement/* 

Lotaires voit le duel, nel pot plus longement 
750 Soufrir ne endurer, va s'ent el mandement, 5^ 

Si mande .i. escrivent e il i vint erranment ; 

Et li rois li endite et mostre son talent, 

K'il face partot letres tant com sa terre estent 

A trestos ses fiev6s, qu'il viegnent erranment 
755 Lui aidier et secorre, car mestier en a grant, 

Et qui demoerra sel conperra ferment 

T OTAIRES fait escrire letres enseelees 
^^^ S'en envoie gar9ons par puis et par valees ; 
Mande tos ses fiev6s par totes ses contrees, 
' 760 Sor quanque de lui tienent en terres grans et lees, 
Qu*a lui viegnent a armes cleres enluminees ; 
II en a ^rant mestier, car on li a gastees 
Et arses ses grans viles, destruites et perees ; 
S*amainent chevaliers, s'aront bones soldees : 
765 Tot soient assemble dedens .xv. jornees 

Al castel de Nisot as montaignes quarrees ; 
Ki de 90U li faura, se il n'a bien mostrees 

735 nestra mesgarle — 737 wanting— -j^ auant sans nul atargemewt 
— 739 wanting — 740 9nie meismeme«t — 741 cui t. a. ameraille — 742 en 
toi ueu ioie 7 deuisseme«t — 743 Sen aurai a tous iors ioie esbanoic- 
me«t— 744 nst fiermame//t — 745 7 lounor hautemewt— 746 cors sera 
liures— 747 A'' si nel mescroi nient — 745 Q*apaines respassent de — 750 
uaissent— 751 After escriuent N inadvertently repeats ua sent from 
the line above. A tost 7 isnielement— 753 si 9—754 q«^ il viencnt er- 
rant— 755 sans nul atargement— 756 demoera--758 Sen enuoie .C.--759 
lor c— 760 t. ticres 7 gras 7 lees — 764 sodoiers— 765 .vii. aiornces — 
766 uisot. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVCNE. 23 

Ses essoines loiaus, s'ierent abandonees 
Ses terres, ses moisons en .1. feu enbrasees ; 
770 Et il sera encontre a bones gens armees, 
A .v.c. chevaliers a grans targes roees, 
Et atot .M. sergans, trestos testes ferrees, 
Sans les arbalestiers, qui feront places lees. 

T ES letres sont escrites et li corliu couroient 
775 Semonre ses fiev6s, que o lui en s'ost soient ; 

' Vienent as chevaliers qui volentiers les voient ; 

II mostrent les seiaus et les letres desploient ; 

Lisent et le besoigne le roi a lor iex voient, 

Al besoing s*aparellent et d'armes se conroient ; 
780 Li viel home d'eage de grant piti^ larmoient, 

Li jovene sont tot liet, qui armes desiroient. 

Li jovene chevalier qui gaaignier voloient 

Enarment ces escus et ces haubers desploient ; 

Ces coifes et ces cauces, trestot ensanble froient, 
785 Quierent lances d'osiere, fers de glave i emploient ; 

Gar^on et escuier ces bels cevals conroient. 

Li ovrier qui d*alesne et de pon9on servoient 

Rekeusent et recloent les seles qu'il avoient ; 

Liment ces esperons, ces torsoires manoient. 
790 Gambisons genellieres as fenestres pendoient. 

Tot portent chevalier, acontent et acroient ; 

Montent, vont s'ent al roi qui les letres disoient. 

Vers les pres descendirent qui durement verdoient ; 

Li un lievent ensegnes qui vers le ciel balloient, 
795 Li autre vont es pres, as cevals herbe soient ; 5c 

La atendent Tuns Tautre jusc'al jor qu'atendoient, 

Que lor sire venist que il molt desiroient. 

.11. Hues et demie de terre porprendoient, 

Si com les la riviere de longes s'estendoient ; 

768 ensonges loiai9 ierent— 769 Se tiere 7 s. m. 7 en fu— 771 A .dec. 
— 772 armees — 773 Fors — 774 N les corlius envoient A H coriu — 775 7 
portent les saiaus u les letres estoient— 776 Isnieleme^t sen uont gaires 
ne demoroie«t — 778 II lissent la besogne 1. r. a 1. ids— 780 de age — 781 
home st' lie N d'armes se desroiewt — 782 nouuiel ch'r ki au gaag 
coroient — 783 armerent escus — 784 tout ensable frooient — 785 dosieres 
7 ces ficrs 1 metoiewt— 786 frotoiewt— 787 Lorains font ki dalesnes 7 de 
poncos ouuroie«t — 788 Racesment 7 r. ces — 78^ torsieres torsoieift — 
790 port oiewt — After 700 A inserts : Haubre^ier escuier haub's esc9 
ucndoiewt — 791 T. prendent c. acatent 7 cacroient [?]— 792 nomoieift — 
793 Ens es p.— 794 9trem6t b.— 795 lierbe— 796 atent li uns— 798 li si- 
res uenroit kil forme«t — 799 con la riuiere ert. 



24 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 



L 



800 La atendent le roi, que point ne s'engramoient. 

I rois Lotaires vient, ne demeure nient ; 
Li carins enduroit tot arouteement 

.IL Hues grans plenieres, si aloit ricement; 

Si portent fer et armes et cevals ensement. 
805 Quant cil qui es pres ierent le virent, erranment 

Vont encontre le roi; sel saluent molt gent ; 

Lor service prescntent al roi molt ricement, 

Et li rois Its mercie et lor salus lor rent. 

A ses castels s*en va ses garnist sagement, 
810 S'i laisse chevaliers, 9a .iiij. xx. 9a cent, 

Et serjans et viandes et armes a talent ; 

Le marce a bien garnie, ne dote mais nient. 

Dont a mand6 ses os que viegnent erranment. 

Car sor Gordoce ira vengier son maltalent. 
815 En sa terre est entr^s, a lui congi6 ne prent ; 

II art et bors et viles et castels et raient, 

S*est nus qui contredie, ne bore ne casement. . 

II met siege erranment et fait son sairement, 

Se il dedens .iij. jors nel rendent quitement 
820 Et il les puet tenir, il les pendra al vent ; 

Ja ne aront proiere ne nul racatement. 

La paors qu'il ont grant les en fait laidement 

Fuir fors des castels sans or et sans argent. . 

Li rois prent les avoirs, ne troeve quil desfent, 
825 Et conniande a ses geudes c'on les tors acravent 

Et murs et fortereces et fosses ensement. 

Bien est .xv. jornees en la terre a la gent 

Qui Deu n'aiment ne croient, ains sont paiene gent ; 

Et true vent bien garnie la terre ricement, 
830 Si les siut li carins qui aporte tostent 

Viande et fer et clau que tot ont en present. 

800 qui p. m. se desroie/it — A/ferSoi A inserts : Mrt a bielle 9pag- 
ne car il maine grat ge«t — 803 bien pi. si ua rois — 804 7 uiande e. — 
805-6 Quant cil des pres les ont ueu apierteniewt Mont^nt en lor ceuaus 
tost 7 isnielenie;it Le roi ont salue biel 7 cortoissemewt — 807 ml't 
deboinerereme/it — 808 Li rois les en m'cie — 810 Si i met c. ca .xi. 
uins — 811 ensement — 813 kil uienewt erraumewt — 814 Cor ira sor 
^radoce — 815 Ens sa t. e. e. sans 9gict folemewt — 816 7 iiilles 7 cas- 
tiaus prent tout a son talent — 817 gtretiegnc — 818 II li met tost le siege 
iure son sairemewt — 821 nen auront~822 kil en ont g. 1. e. font — S25 
sa gent {\ue on les tors crauent — 826 f. brissent isiiielme/zt ^V Kt tors — 
828 paie» pullewt— 829 7 il trueue la tiere garnie— 830 7 li carins Ic siut 
t'stout seuremez/t — 831 7 portent fiers 7 glaiies ki. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 



25 



S*i sont li chevalier qui le cemin gardent. - • 

Paien s'en sont fui en Artajg^e le grant ; 

Ce est une cit^s que on tient a vaillant, 
835 Fremee est de bon mur et d'une aigue corant ; 

Remise ot a non I'aigue qui les va agaignant. 

En mer cdrt de ravine et si va molt bruient ; 

Ele porte navie, par la vont li calant 

Ki portent les mesages an Perse al roi soudant. 
840 .IIIJ. bras par deriere et .iiij. par devant, 5^ 

Vait Taigue en la cit€, ensi le vait fermant ; 

A cascune a bon pont et carniere tomant, 

Et une tor molt haute de marbre tot luisant ; 

Loges i a entor qui sont joint a ciment, 
845 Si a .c. arbalestes a puelie tendant, 

Et .c arbalestiers molt rices fi6s tenant ; .. 

La ne puet nus passer qui de mort ait garent» 
, S'il n'a en la tomele ami et connlscent ; , 

Ce sont les avangardes de la cit€ devant. 
850 Entor la cit6 ot aigue douce corant, 

.II I.e. pi^s a de le deseure ens el nais9ant, 

Et li mur i sont le apr^s en a9aignant, 

Et de .c. pi^s a altre a une tor levant, 

Masice, de hautece, une lance tenant, 
855 Teus .v.c. en i a por la vile esfor9ant ; 

• • • 

Cascune a .v. tonels de .c. haubers tenant ; 
Tot entor a gisarmes et grans haces pendant, 
Et ars et arbalestres, et quarials i a tant 
Que de la grant plenty ne trovr^s voir disant ; 

860 Borgois a en la vile qui sont d*avoir manapt, 
Bacons et pois et feves, et bon vin, et forment 
Ont ; dusques a .vii. ans ne lor fauroit nient, 
S'il n*en croisoit eri \erre .i. boistel ne plain gant ; 
Si en avroient il a oes tote lor gent 

865 Qui laiens esteroient lor zwk desfendant, 

Dont i a .xxx. mile trestos armes portant. 

832 bacheler (Jui les cemins gartent — After ^yi A inserts-. Q'paie;; 
nes sousprene«t ne maineift malamewt — 835 boins murs — 836 Remisse 
a a 11.-839 en perse roi sodat — 841 a la — 842 7 caine— 843 fnl't rice d. 
m. escarimant — 844 L. a 7 tourieles tout entor a cainat — 845 polies — 846 
de rices fies — 848 toriele a. u — 850 a aige parfonde 7 grat — 851 N deure 
A laissant— 852 m. en sont haut— 853 autre a toriele— 854 Masieres . . . 
destat — 855 A'^ par — 856 A^ notels A touniaus— 857 maces — 862 Ont il 
duske a . . . faurn — 863 .1. bouciel tenat. 



26 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

La sont venu trestot li paien afuiant 

De .XV. grand jornees querre de mort garant. 

T3 OIS Lotaires porsiut paiens a grant eifroi, 
870 '■•^ II Ics chace si fort qu'fl les met a desroi ; 

II a Deu en aie, de qui il tient sa loi. 

II monte une montaigne s'esgarde desos soi, 

Voit k cit6 d'Artage, le fierce, le bufoi> 

Et vit qu'ele iert inolt fors, s'apiele en suen secroi 
875 Les bons engigneors Nicolas et Joifroi : 

" Apel6s vos ai ci, segnor, par bone foi. 

Baron, ceste cit6s (si lor mostra al doi), 

Pens6s comment jo Taie, jo voel grever le roi ; 

De I'avoir qui ens est, si com je pens et croi, 
880 Aront no soldoier soldees et conroi. 

Faites moi ma besoigne, si vos met6s en moi ; 

Jo ferai a vo gre par vert6 et par loi." 

" Sire,** dist Nicolas, " se Deus garist Joifi^oi, 

Nos ferons tel engien laval en eel jonqoi 6* 

885 De coi nos abatrons d'Artage le boufoi." 

T I rois ne valt avant nule maniere aler, 

'■"^ Ains fait par tote Tost et banir et crier 

K'i se logent aval ; dont oissi^s comer 

Plus de .c. mile cors et buisines soner. 
890 Cascuns fice son tref quil sace u asener ; 

L'autres fice une lance, sel laise venteler 

Et balloier I'ensegne ; li autres va forer, 

Et li autre se painent des cevals conreer, 

Et li autre as quisines font le feu alumer, 
895 Et font les fus saillir des faisius ahurter. 

Li chevalier de pris alaiscent cembeler 

Volentiers a la porte, s'il peiiscent mener 

Cevals ne traire en destre por sor els conquester ; 

Mais li mar6s est grans, n'osent por affondrer. 
900 Neporquant si i vont .xx. legier baceler 

869 desroi — 870 si pries ... en esfrois — 871 7 dieu a— 872 m. esgarde 
—873 Le |;rat cite dartage le fierte— 874 A^ un s. ^ II uoit q«^Te est 
ml't f. s. e son recoi— 875 nicollai 7 giefroi— 876 Apiele— 877 Vees ci 
la cite — 878 lor r. — 881 sor moi— 882 paf le foi q«^ uous doi— 884 lauual 
—885 Par— 886 uiolt— 887 sost— 888 Q*— 880 xxx— 890 II ni a eel ki face 
a son tret a \rest of line effaced]— ^i N sel saise A kil laise— 892 
autre uont— 894 as esqiiiers uont le— 895 Si f. le fii s. d. fusiaus— 896 
celebrer— 898 pw corois— 899 marois . . . ptw lesfondrer— 900 li legier. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. ^7 

Tant que il porent si dure terre trover 
Que lor ceval les puisent sans eniangier porter ; 
Et si font une esciele de chevaliers armer 
Qu'il font en .i. saucoi mucier et aombrer, 
905 Que se mestiers lor est, qu*il s'i poront fier. 
Cil s'en vont dusc'as pons, il les ont iais lever ; 
N'i a mesder cenbels, nes en porent jeter. 

A SSEZ ont cembel£, mais n'i porent rien faire, 
**" Ne de eels de laiens nes .i. sol 9a fors traire ; 

910 Car s'il veniscent fors ce lor peiist molt plaire, 
Ne ja tant n'en veniscent en place ne en aire 
Que il nes ocesiscent sans crier et sans braire. 
Por mius estre frem£ ont il fait lor pons traire, 
N'ainc a mur n'a fenestre ne troverent viaire. 

915 El retor se sont mis li chevalier Lotaire; 
Por 90 ne remanra ne lor &ce contraire. 
Car s'il ne puet par force, Tavra par engin £ure. 
II mande Nicolas, et Joifroi qui ert maire, 
Que onques mais ne iinent de lor engiens portraire, 

920 Si aient abatu de lor gent deputaire 

L'orguel et le boufois qui si lor puet desplaire ; 
Et il mandent ariere par une nef corsaire, 
Feront il ens entrer par desos la tor maire, 
S'il velt et boin li est mon segnor roi Lotaire. 

925 TDAR desous la cit6 bien a liue et demie 

Avoit par mi .1. mont une molt grant trencie ; 
Toute Taigue qui cort par la ax.€ gamie 
Et devant et deriere, qui iert en .viii. partie, 
Trestote rasambloit par mi la praerie (f* 

930 Et par mi un boscet de sapin qui verdie ; 
Toute s'en passe la, sous la roce naie, 
Si que la avoit rente de treii establie 
De tous avoirs passans qu'i vienent a navie. 
La s'en ala Joifrois, il et sa conpaignie, 

901 T. com il peure«t — 902 lor p.— ^904 N Q*il font .i. — 905 puisent — 
906 fait — 907 puewt — 908 ont il cenbiel ais ni— 909 ecus la deaens— -911 
uenist ne e«-y^i2 wanting— oi^ fremee . . . mostrereirt— 915 Cil rctor- 
newt ariere ki el nen pue«t faire— 916 facent— 917 ^pueift A f. il uiolt 
— After 918 A inserts : Prie lor par amor que sil puent rien faire— 919 
Q* il ne finest mais de lor eifgien p.— 921 Le butoi 7 lorguel — 922 m. 
au roi que u. A'^ nef font faire— 923 Feroient il aler par desor le tor — 
024 iou ferai cest afaire — 925 liu— 926 te«cie— 928 kiest N A .v.— ^30 
boskiel de. sapins— 931 passoit— 932 al passage €.—933 a. uenami N 
qui i vient. 



28 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AC/ CYGNE. 

935 Bien ot .c. carpentiers, cascun hace cntesie; 
Le boschet abatirent trestout a une hie, 
Tos les arbres esmondent, ostent la ramellie 
Et loient par faisiaus, ainc n'i remest bracie ; 
L.es gros ci6s aguisierent trestot en esquarie, 

940 Et puis s'i font le feu, s'ont la pointe bruie. — *; 
Dont le laisent floter ausi comme navie, 
Et Taigue lessen porte dessi qu'a la trencie 
Qui iert entre rij. mons» la.i'ont sus resacie. 
Dont s'en. yont bien .Ix. et quatre a une hie, « 

945 Qui hient les inainens en la teire et enguie, 

Por faire bone escluse, que I'aigue ne pastmie. 
.II. rjcnges font de pels eten mi .ramellie, 
Et si I'ont bien de terre et caucie et foucie, 
Nes I'erbe ont.aportee d'aval.la praerie, 

950 Et si ont de la roce colpee et detrencie 

I^ piere issi tre§ grande c'une n^ trairoit mie 
Uns cars a .x. cevals, por tot Tor de Pavie. 
Or est rescluse faite et tres bien sospoie ; 
L*aigue ne pot issir, s'ert la valee enplie. 

955 Li rois i met -M. homes, par terre et par navie. 
Boins bacelers et jovenes plains de grant aatie, 
Qui garderont Tesduse, que ne soit desgamie. 

R s'en reva Joifrois ariere al rot parler : 
'* Sire rois, nos estuet cest altre bois colper, 

960 Et faire une autre escluse por la cit6 grevcr^ . 
" Or va," ce dist Lotaires, ** fai.tost, ne demorer.'* 
Cil vait a grant conpaigne por le bos carpenter ; 
Caisnes abat et faus fait a ter^e verser, 
Et a faites les ais et lignier et .doler ; 

965 A poi et a estoupe les fait joindre et cloer : 
.XX. pi6s a li planci6s qu'il a fait estorer, 
Et a .iij. pi6s de haut le fait entor bender ; 
De tels planci^s fait .xx. qu'il fera jos floter, 
Es .x. a fait desfenses por les cors aombrer 

970 De chevaliers q'iront la bataille endurer ; 

942 desi a le marcic— 943 est e. .ii. m. puis 161—944 cent v. — 945 
aguie — 948 bien tiere 7 c. 7 fouie— ^9 De lierbc i ont porte deiia»t — 
951 Les pieres isi grandes--Q53 7 bien «/— Q54 ne« puet — 958 arierere 
—959 S. r. encor iiel c— 961 tos— 963 A Kenes a. 7 f. a tiere fait A'^ 
font--H^4 Fenles 7 sen fsit ais 7 si les fait d.— 965 poit 7 a estoupes I. 
f. j. 7 fierer— 968 plantcs . . . i9 i.— 969 ^lor c— 970 Dcs c. k. seveirt. 



o 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 29 

A eels dedens iront, se mestiers est, capler. 

Et baus fait aguisier, por faire as murs hurtcr, 

Encontre coi li mur ne poroient durer 

Ne les tors desfensables u on les puist mener. 6^ 

975 Apr6s fait une escluse sel lalt bien enterrer, 

De gros mairiens entor ficier et passoner, 

De pieres et de rains bien kaukier et prcsser, . 

Que nule fuisons d'aigue ne puet oltre passer. 

Dont fait totes les nes del pais aiiner 
. 980 Et joindre Tune a Tautre bien forment et serrer. 

L'eve croist et le val veissi^s araser. 

Joifrois en est venus devant le roi ester : 

'* Sire rois," dist li il* "faites vo gent armer, 

Chevaliers et serjans lor cors bien conreer." 
985 " Bien as dit," dist li rois ; dont fait .i. cor soner ; 

Apr^s le cor a fait par tot son ban. crier, 

Que tost voisent as armes mescin et baceler ; 

De cors et de buisines font tot le val trenbler. 

Joiant s'en yont et li6, por I'avoir conquester 
990 Ki est en la cit6 que on ne puet nonbrer. 

A RME sont chevalier et bien et noblement 

^^ Por aler en bataille contre paiene gent ; 

Arbalestier sdnt mis as baotes devant, 

Et li chevalier sont rengi^ siereement ; 
995 Serjant et escuier aficierent forment 

Qu'il lor feront assez de mal et de torment. 

.V. escieles ont fait, en I'aigue voht najant ; 

Al harnas sont rem6s bien chevalier .v. cent. 

Qui gardent les cevals et maint bon gaminient. 
1000 Joifrois vint a Tescluse et si serjant aranpent 

Et conduisent les baus aguis6s par devant 

Ki as fors murs d'Artaje ferront premierement ; 

Et Taigue les en porte tant ravinousement, 

Ja n'i eiist il baus ne altre engignement, 
1005 Que fors seulement Taigue qui cort a grant torment 

^71 7 a caus de laiens se— 972 ivanting—^i^ enu's aus arieste'— 977 
A pierews— ^78 puist— 979 N ariuer— 980 fiermemewt siere*— 981 tout 
raser— 983 cfist lofrois— 988 crosier — 990 q«^ nus — After 992 vl has\ 
Mescin ne baceler ne dormoie»t nient As baotes st' mis li arcier coie- 
mept 7 li arbalaistrier ki traient durement— 995 sera ficent-^H996 Kf lor 
-^7 delor gent— 998 As tentes — 1000 il 7 toute sa ge«t — looi Si c. I. 
b, u's les vsxurxs sagt aient — icx^ bauc — 1005 fort ... si roidement. 



3P 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 



N'aresteroient il, ne duerroit noient 
Quant Taigue vint as murs ne laise nes crevent, 
Trestot le premier mur que il vait consivent ; 
En la ciXk s'espart et note tant de gent, 

loio Nes poroit on nonbrer par nul enbrievement, 
Nus escrivens qui soit par nesun escient 
Cil qui ierent as tors et d haut mandement 
Quidoient par desfense av(nr boin tensement ; 
Mais cil qui les grans baus aloient conduisent 

1015 Hurtent si fort as tors, toutes les estroent, 

Et Taigue qui ens entre noie avaine et forment. 

Les gamimens qui flotent re^oit on voirement, 

Mais de la gent qui sont noi£ a tel torment 

Ne vos puet clers conter, ne jogleres qui cant, 6^ 

1020 I^es cens et les milliers qui sont mu et taisant, 

Dont Tarme en est partie ne mais ne sont vivant ; 
Et femes et enfant et la menue gent, 
Car il en ont premiers le martiriement. 
Maint quident eschaper et fiiir en noant 

1025 La u la gens le roi, qui tos jors vont najant, 
Les noient, si les traient et iierent maintenant 
U del arc u de glavie, ja n'en aront garant 
Auquant se rendent pris et vont merci criant, 
Mais n'en eschape nus, se 90 n'est amirant 

1030 U princes u cas^s de rices fi^s tenant, 

S'il en laient nul vif, u rice home granment. 

T^OUTES les .v. eschieles sont en la vile entrees ; 
^ De bones gens i ot tos jovenes .x. navees, 
Et voient cele gent piesmement tormentees ; 
1035 Les unes flotent sus, Tautres sont affondrees, 
L*unes traites par mi, les autres espeees 
D'une glavie par mi ; i sont molt malmenees. 

1006 duroie«t — 1007 uint . . . ne atent — icx)8 Tout le premerain balle 
abat deliurement — loio Nus nel poroit nobrcr — loii wanting — 10x3 
Voient par la cite le grat detruiseme»t — 1014 les bas a cordes — 1015 
esfroewt— 1016 Li aigne ki entre ens noie auai — 1017 wantmg-^\o\^ 
puct nus le nobre uraiement — io2o-i wan/tng^io22 De fenmes et den- 
fans et de — 1023 Cil ont primes recut le martiriement — 1024 Mais tcus 
cuide ... a garant — 1025 Q' la gent orient ki partout ua na^ftt — 1026 
u les fierent 7 liurent a torm<r«t — 102^ 7 li plusor escrient mierci ml't 
hautemmt — 1028 st' pris a force ct loi durement — 1029 se ne st' amir- 
cnt — 1030 U haus princes cases de rice tenement — 1031, 1033 wanting 
— 1034 A orees A' piesmemement — 1035 A floter amot autres s. es- 
fondrees N laurres— J036 A IJ un $t' trait parmi 7 li autre despees 
A'^ espees — 1037 De glaues 7 de lances isi st* m. 



L 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 51 

Bien ont aval la vile de tors .c. effondrees ; 

Venu sont al dongnon et as fenestres lees, 
1040 Quierent de chevaliers armes bien aprestees ; 

La sont !i chevalier, les testes bien armees, 

Si sont prest d'endurer grans estors et mellees. 

Cil de sous traient la saietes empenees, 

Assez les ont la sus soufert et endurees. 
1045 Pels assCs lor lancierent s'ont lor nes effondrees, 

Et fiut molt grans damages de bones gens loees. 

Une navee en muerent qui d'armes sont penees, 

II et tote lor nes en est a terre alees ; 

Li fers les trait aval, la sont acouvetees : 
1050 Or se resont les gens roi Lotaire grevees. 

I assaus est rem^s si se traient arriere, 
Consel prendent qu'i! voelent en plus forte mantere 

AssaiUir le donjon ; il n'ont point de perriere, 

Mais il feront hurter et devant et deriere 
i<^55 I^^ baus qu'il ont agus a la grant tor pleniere ; 

Et s'il est horn la sus qui mece fors sa ciere, 

Arbalestier trairont de lor arbalestriere. 

Or vienent hurteor plus isnel de levriere, 

Si hurtent a la tor que ce lor est a viere« 
1060 A eels qui sont la sus, qu'il soient en crolliere 

De pret u de marois. A tant mostra sa ctere 

Li ni6s le roi d'Artage par une baotiere, 

Bien a la teste armee et d'elme et de coifiere ; 

Et uns arciers I'avbe qui tres parmi Tuelliere 7* 

1065 Le fiert ens el cervel qu^el haterel deriere 

Li parut U quariaus, et il ciet sor le piere. 

On li sece le flece qui fu de fort osiere, 

Li fers est remasus ens en la cerveliere. 

On li a ost6 Telme et la coife doublicre, 
1070 Et apr6s le hauberc dont la maille est d*ormiere ; 

Puis le concent tot mort de lone sor une biere. 

1038 ot . . . de .vii. 0.-1039 ki bien fu fenestres-— 1040 Si st* li ch*r 
darmes bien A^arestees — 1041 uont— 1042 Apris sont d. gras 7 estors — 
1045 N arses — 1046 Euous . . boune gent armees — 1047 muert ki dames 
—1049 traie«t ens — 1050 Le sentent . . . orient ml't — 1053 al doigno — 
1055 K^l tor de piere— 1056 laiens — 1057 trairoient d. 1. abalestrie — 
1058 A'' viegnent A aue 1.— 1062 bautierc— 1063 ot sa t. a. 7 daub'c 
7 de coifliere — 1064 luniicre — 1066 7 tres en mi sa cicre — 1067 crt — 
1068-9 wanting — 1070 Apries . . . dooliere — 107 1 en u. 



32 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGN/i, 

T ORS est li ni^s le roi molt a grant destorbier, 

'■"^ Car il n'avoit laiens nul mellor chevalier ; 

Se il fust crestiiens molt se peiist proisier. 
1075 Li rois fait molt grant duel, n'i ot que corecier. 

" Segnor baron,'* fait il, '* sav6s moi consellier ? 

Nos serons ^aiens pris encore ains Tanuitier ; 

Ne gart Teure que voie ceste tor trebucier. 

Rendons nos a eel roi, soions si prisonier ; 
1080 S'il velt de nos avoir ne argent ne or mier, 

Nos Ten donrons assez, tot plain son desirier ; 

Nos cors et nos avoirs n^etons en son dangier.'* 

" Sire,** ce dient il, " bien fait a otroier ; 

Dites qui vos vol6s.faire au roi envoier." 

1085 " S*il n'est autres quil die, faites moi messagier,** 
Dist uns clers qui iert la, qui se fait latimier ; 
Clers estoit de lor loi, molt set bien fabloier. 

*• A16s,** 90U dist li rois, " dites le roi Lotier 
Que jo desir a lui par trive plaidoier 
1090 Et par non d*acordance ; al6s sans atargier, 
Prend6s la une targe sel faites cloficier 
Une crois d'un blanc drap por plus tost apaier. 

/^IL s'en monte en la tor es haus quertials en son, 

^^ Si ot la crois pendue et traite en son blazon. 
1095 II ot la teste armee, si cria a haut ton : 

** Oi^s ! oi^s ! segnor, une fiere raison ; 

Cies6s, ne trails mais, ne hurt6s al donjon ; 

Trives mande mesire al roi de grant renon 

Par non de fine acorde, s*atorner li puet on." 
1 100 Li rois vient cele part, qui*n a 01 le son ; 

Le retrait fait soner, que bien I'entendi on. 

Onques puis ne hurterent a quarel n'a perron, 

Ne ne traist d'arbaleste par nesune ocoison. 

^o dist li latimiers, qui estoit el donjon : 
1 105 " Oi6s ! oiez ! segnor, une fiere raison : 

1073 nore»t — 1074 fesist a p. — 1075 u na que — 1076 A dist il laissies 
N faves— 1077 serons cncor pris caiens ains— 108 1 donroros— 10S2 
ivantirig^id^T, oil — 1084 que v9 uores a eel roi — 1085 si nest a. kel — 

1086 la t'sl—ioS-j sot — 1088 d. 1. sans dagier — 1089 parler 7 acointier— 
1091 urc {vacant space for c\o^c\^v) — 1092 de blanc d. person cuer — 
1093 II . . as haus ce'tiaus — 1094 Si a pendu le crois y>or iraite c;/ un *V 
bazon — 1095 a haut'") — 1096 Auois sepic^rr uous nous feres raison — 1099 
a lui n9 renderons — iioo N q^n A ki — 1 101-5 wanting. 



NAISSANCE DV CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 33 

Li rois qui (aiens est a Lotaire par nop • . 

Et si conpaignon tot se renderont prison, 

Que il salves lor vies viegnent a raengon. 

Del lor po^s avoir maint marc et maint mangon, 7** 

1 1 10 Si en laisi^s aler lor cors a garison ; 

De tot Tor que prendr6s ne donroit .i. boton, 

Car plus vos en donra que ne conteroit hon. • 

Or responde li rois si die, et nos I'oron." 

Avant se traist li rois sos Tescu au lion, 
1 1 15 Ja parlera en haut, qui qu'en poist ne qui non.. 

*' Latimier," dist li rois, ** ja n'en conselleron, , , 

Di ton segnor, avant qu'il gerpisce l^ahon, 

Et tot si conpaignon si croient en Jhesum 

Et demandent batesme, et nos lor otrion 
1 1 20 Trestot communalment et vie et raen9on ; 

Et se faire nel voelent ja nes deporteron 

Que ne raient Tasaut a force et a bandon, 

Et vo tor abatue, et eux pendu en son." 

T'AIST li latimiers, " Sire, ariere voel aler 
1 1 25 De vostre mandement a mon segnor parlfer ; 

Mais tant que jo irai, faites trives doner.*' 

Cil vient a son segnor les noveles conter : 

" Sire, se vos vol^s ariere dos jeter 

Mahon et ApoUin, et Jesu aorer, 
1 130 Si vos faites en fons batisier et lever 

Et tot cil qui ci sont, vo domaine et vo per, 

Sauve vo raen^on vos en laira aler ; 

Et 6e vos ne vol^s cest afaire graer, 

II fera vostre tor trestote defroer 
1 1 35 Et a .i. haut pegnon vos trestos encroer." 

" Par Mahon !" dist li rois, " molt velt cil horn derver, 

Qui ne velt espargnier roi ne prince ne per. 

Qu'en lo6s vos, segnor, des vies rachater ? 

Vol6s laisier Mahon et Jesu aorer ? 

1 106 Vien a moi dist li rois si li c»e a haut to— 1107 rendent en — 1108 
Car p<?r sauuer 1. v. uiene/itfr^-iiio les c— 1113 responge 1. r. 7 d. 7 n. 
lorons — 1 1 14 a lescu — 11 15 parlera li rois — 11 17 ee^rpise— 1 1 18 7 tous 
ses 9pagn6s kil — 11x9 demage/it . . . lotrierons — 1121 uiut — 1123 uos 
tors abatues — After 1123 A inserts: U en aige courat t'stpus les 
noieros — 1124 anere en uel — 1131 demal — T132 sa r. v. e. fera ralter — 
1133 v9 ceste cosse ne uoles c'eanter — 1135 7 si V9 fera tous au jg^ibet 
e« cuer — 1136 Vor . . . uiut se cil ho d'uer— 1138 Se les os no signor 
uolies r. 



34 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

1 146 U tost fiure, u laisier, n'avons que demorer/' 

On a mis le respons sor Faburon TEscler. 

Dist Faburons : " Segnor, ne nos fesist fauser 

Mahon por nule rien, s'il nos vausist amer ; 

II nos a &it ^aiens laidement enconbrer, 
1 145 Et nos donrons sa teste, qui'st de fin or et cler, 

As crestiiens la fors por vie rachater, 

Et qu'il nos &cent tos a lor deu racorder. 

Alons, rendons nos armes, n'avons que detrier."* 

II deslacent lor elmes d'ader poitevin cler, 
1 1 50 Et les coifTes de fer font ariere jeter» 

Et les espees nues devant lor pis porter. 

.1. puestic ont overt par u voelent passer ; 

La prent li rois d'Artage Lotaire a apeler : 

" Rois, jo vieng ci a vos, mi demaine et mi per, 7* 

1 155 Nient por autre cose mais por merci crier, 

Se toi plaist et bon t'est por nos vies salver ; 

Se tu raen9on vels, ass6s en pues conter." 

Rois Lotaires respont : " Batisier et lever 

Et enoindre de cresme et tos crestiener, 
1 160 Et quanque vos por6s a batesme amener 

Vos convient, se vol6s vos vies rachater ; 

Et qui 90U ne fera, de la teste a couper 

Sera trestos seiirs, ne s'en pora douter ; 

^a vo main, sel vol^s plevir et creanter." 
1 165 " Oje, sire, ten6s m'espee d'acier cler, 

Et ma foi dont je doi Jhesu Crist aorer." 

Autretel font li autre, ne I'osent refuser. 

" Or rend6s/* dist li rois, " les tresors qu'amasser 

Av6s fait es escrins, et Targent et Tor cler, 
1 1 70 Car j'en vaurai assez mes soldoiers doner; 

Et jo vos en vaurai en ma terre mener, 

Desd que nos porons un evesque trover 

1140 A^ tot — 1 141 fauburo les der— 1143 N Nos deus— 1144 demorer 
— 1 145 est c. — 1 146 nos uies — After 1146 A inserts : 7 si ferons per eus 
qua que porons nner 7 si lor prierons de boin cuer sans fauser — 1 149 
Q* il— 1148 demorer— ^//^r 1148 A inserts : Paor ai que ne facent ccste 
tour crauenter— 1149 lor coifes font oster— 1x50 7lesaub'sdes dos 
font apries for jeter— 1152 la U--1153 orient apieler— 1154 ca a toi mi 
baron — 1155 non pour nule autre cose — 1156 Se tu uiols — 1156 uiols 
r. — 1159 toi c. — 1160 pones a batalle — 1163 ne len estuet d. — 1164 Ca 
uenes se uoles — 1166 Si en cierent lor fois de ihu a. — 1167 A Aust 
fissent N orent--ii68 Or rendes le tresor d. I. r.— 1169 sel me faites 
liurer. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 35 

Ki vos pora uns fons beneir et sacrer, 

U on vos puist trestos en fons rengenerer." 

1 175 Et respont li paiens : *' Bien le vod crcanter 
Trestot de bone foi, de vert£ sans fauser. 
Li tresor sont noii£ : &ites I'eve avaler, 
Que nos puisons ariere ens es canbres entrcr/* 
Li rois mande Joifroi qu'il viegne a lui parler, 

1 180 Et il i vient moll tost sans plus de demorer. 
"Joifroi," ce dist li rois, "faites nos atierer/' 

JOIFROIS vait a Tescluse si ne demorc mie, 
Les pels en esra^a et Taigue en est widie ; 

La terre se mostra qui tote fii noie. 
1 185 II n'avait en Artage de la gent paienie 

Plus que .c. homes vis, tote ert la gens perie. 

Cil vont por querre Tor dont la vile est garnie, 

Assez en aporterent et a grant segnorie. 

Por 90U qu'en la cit6 ot tant de gent noie, 
1 190 Qui gisent par ces places en brai et en iangie, 

En fait li rois Lotaires en .i. camp qui verdie 

Porter tot le tresor c'on li met en baillie. 

Le roi paien en maine et tote sa maisnie. 

Ia rois fait assanbler se grant cevalerie, 
1 195 Soldoiers et serjans qui ierent en s'aie, 

Et il conmence a faire sa rice departie ; 

Plus doune au plus vaillant et mains a la maisnie. 

Cil qui il done mains hautement Ten mercie ; 7^ 

Ki la valt demorer s'ot rice manandie. 
1200 Apr6s soldees a li rois sa gent banie 

K'il en velt repairier, s'a se conestablie 

Mis en Tariere garde et si a establie 

L'avangarde de gent qui sera fervestie ; 

Mais la paiene gent, icels n'oblie mie. 

1 173 ens f.— 1176 wanHng—iijS e« nos c— 1179 que uiegnc— 1180 
uient errant sans point— Af^r 1180 A inserts: 7 leuc des esclusses 
faites aual aler Si capie peussons par mi la uile aler— 1182 as escluses 
que ni arieste mie— 1 183 N laigueif en— After 1183 A inserts; Aual 
cort la riuiere par si grftt aramie Con le puet bien oir dune Hue 7 
deraie— 1184 S. t. ses seua [s'eslcva] ki toute estoit noie— 1 187 ert— 
1189 Por qnt en 1. c. ont— iioop. 7 en tai en fangie— 1191 f. rois orians 
—1 197 as plus vallas— 1198 d. ic mains— 1 199 7 ki u*olt de morer sans 

f)aor de sa uie— 1200 Apries ses dounes a— 1201 a sa c— 1202 misent 
ariere— 1203 N gens A qui bien est f.— 1204 7 paiene gent maine ens 
en sa 9pagnie. 



36 ' NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE. 

1 205 T 1 va par ces castels que il a voit conquis, 

^ U il ot ses proves et ses chevaliers mis ; 

Tels i a qu'il abat, auquans en a garnis, 

Et des prisons ausi tels i a sont ods 

Et les testes colpees et ^nfouis to^ vis 
1 210 U pendiis a haus caisnes, onques n'^en ot mercis, 

Tant qu'il vint eh sa marce al cief de .xv. dis. 

I^ manda .i. evesque et ab€s dusqu'a dis, 

Et li vesques a fais uns sains Tons' beneis 

En line haute eglise mon segnor S. Patris. 
1 215 Apr6s le beni9on a oile et cresme mis,- 

Plonci6 i a Ic roi del cief outre le vis 4 • 

Parins en fu li rois et ab^ dusqu'a dis, 

Patrices ot a non, del non al saint fu pris. 

Et.les autres paiens a tos issi baillis,; .. 
1220 Tot sont fait crestiien, Mahons est relenquis : 

A Jhesu font fiance, deables soil honis. 

Li rois en fillolage lor dona Monbregis, 

Un castel molt vaillant, et tos les apendis, 

Et bien .Ix. viles qui la sont el pais ; . '*> 
1225 Se li a tot rendu ce qu'il avoit conquis, 

F'ors les tresors qu'il ot as soldoiers partis. 

Li paiens li a foi et lige^ promis 

Et si remaint ses hom de quanqu'est poestis. 

\TOLT fu li rois Lotaires el cuer esleeci6s 
1 230 De 90 que Dex Ta si et les siens avanci(3s. 

Que ses anemis a desos ses pi6s plaisi^s^ ' 

Deu et ses sains en a hautement grasii^s ;" 

Sen tilluel et ses homes en a tos renvoi^s. 

Tels est al main joians, al vesprc est coureci^s : 
1235 Li rois vait par sa marce com cil qui erthaiti^s. 

Entrues que li rois a les paiens si brisi^s 

Et il est durement demor6s et targi^s, 

Elioxe sa feme, dont Deu prenge pities, . 

120^ abat teus i a kil ^arnist— 1208 li pristm— 120^ U . . . u e. — 1210 
ivanhng — After 1209 A inserts : Tant ceuauce li rois par plains 7 par 
lairis — 1211 Q' il uint en sa marce al ior de — 1212 trOs ca-ri2i3 want- 
///^-=-i2i4 haute glisse — 12 15 a on le cresme mis — 1216 desi outre — 
1217 trosqua — 1218 le .S. — 1219 ot tous ensi — 1221 En" . . . est — 1222 li 
doune niobrunis — 1223 apentis — 1224 .xxv. J?) — 1225 qua kil — 1226 le 
tresor — 1227 a sa foil ^ iuret 7 pleui — 1228 Q* il remaint — 1233 il en a 
renut)ies — 1234 ki au uiesp«r ^j/iries — 1235 ses niarces . . . est. 



Xlf/SSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE, 37 

A atehdu son terme q^i li estapfoi^s 
i'240 St cotti dtl mesaler dont li fais est n^olt gri^s ; 

Ele va paV Sfes canbres, se li tleut molt li ci^s, 

Ses dens estraint ensanle, ses mils est enforci^s. 
• Les dkmes qui soufroient des enfansles mesci^s 8* 

Sevent bi^n Ic malage, qu'il est bic^ii angoissi6s ; 
1 245 Bien set que de cest n^al n'ert ja siens sire li6s. 

T ES^dames sont en paine de cele' dame aidier, 
Et'molt ont de dolor, quel voient travellier 

A si grande hascie et son cors escillTer ; 

Mais por nient se paine qui Dex ne velt aidier, 
1 250 Et cil qui Dex ajue, soef puet somelier. 

Une m^rvelle avint que je vos voel noncier : 

Qiiant Deu ploit que la dame peut son fais descargier, 

.VIJ. en a on trov6s, as enfans man'bief: 

Une jentil pucele ont trovee al premier ; 
1255 Li autre soht vallet, Dex les gart d'enconbrier. 

Une caaine d*or avoit cascuns, d'or mier ; 
. La lai^cent les enfans a terre formoier, 

A la dame entendirent, qui en ot grant mestier. 

Bieii le de'maine mals et devant et derier, 
1 260 Bien set qu'a terre mere li estuet repainer ; 

L'^iiVe de mort li est sor main sans detriier. 

Di batre sa poitrine, de Damedeu hucier, 

^ou est tot^ s'entente, que n'i a que targier ; 

Saint Esperit del ciel ne ciese de proier 
1 265 Que ii' isains Abrahans s'arme puist avoier. 

" Ahi ! Lotaire^, sire, com po^s detriier ? 

Jahiais ne me verr^s com vos^voie cier." 

Lors a lev(6 sa main et por ^6n vis sainier 

Al ciel Heye ses iex, lors li convint clugnier. 
1270 *' Dex, t6t*est fait de moi ! fai moi aconpaignier 

As sains arigeles del ciel, se vos en puis proier." 

Ayf ORTE est bele Elioxe, I'esperis s*en est al6s, 

^ Et par tote la sale en est li oris lev6s.. 
Li cofsgist estendus d'un paile acovet^s, 

1 .' - * . • * i *.> 

^ 1239 ap^ocie5'^-I24o de .vii.. enfans d. 1. f. estoit gries — 1241- la canbre 
,r242 A Les d.' e. e. li c^s est N enforie — 1243 cbnVsoufiert-^i 244 l^i 
pil't t'5/aprociesHt245 waniing— 124/S por c. — 1249 cui dex ne uient — 
1250 q«^ dex aie s. p. 9sellier — 1251 Oies. une m. — 1252 deskierkie* — 
1253 trouues enfans de la moillier — 1256 c. auoit au col — 1258 N da- 
me// — A passes from 1258 to 1292. 






38 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

1275 Li luminaires est dd clergiet alum&t ; 

Li clergife est venus dont Dex est aor6s 

Et li devins mestiers est al cors Celebris 

A crois» a iilatires, a encensiers bras^ 

EI demain fii li cors a T^lise port6s, 
1280 Mais dedens les parois nen est il |>as entr^s. 

Li messe est conmencie et haute et solen^s 

Et serjans et borgois ot a Tofrande ass€s, 

Mais de chevaliers est en Tost tos li bam£s. 

Apr6s messe est li cors jentement enterr6s, 
1285 A le maisiere gist del mostier tos serr£s, 

Et li pules en est en maison retom6s. 

Assez ill li cors plains et cri^s et plor€8. 

puis que la rome est Elioxe entieree, 8^ 

*- La mere al roi en est en maison retomee, 
1290 Tot erranmant en est en ses canbres entree ; 

La sont les .iiij. dames cascune escavelee, 

Encor mainent lor duel por la dame honoree. 

(^ou dist la mere au roi : " Mostr6s ga la portee 

De coi ma belle fille est morte et enterree." 
1 295 Les dames respondirent : " C'est mervelle provee ; 

Dame, .vii. en i a tot a une litee." 

** .VIL ! por la bele crois, mervelle av& contee, 

Jo ne vauroie mie qu'ele me fust mostree ; 

Plevissi6s 9a vos fois que c'ert cose celee, 
1300 N'a home ne a feme qui de mere soit nee 

Ne sera ceste cose ja par vos revelee.^ 

Ensi li ont les dames par foi acreantee. 

La dame en apela Monicier de Valee ; 

Cerki6 a et corut par lui mainte contree. 
1305 Cil est venus a li : " Dame, que vos agree ? '' 

'* Tu i6s mes horn, et foi m'as tu aseiiree ; 

Jo t'ai bien fait, encor n'en sui mie lasee : 

Une rien a a faire, 90 soit cose celee ; 

Ne le te dirai pas sel m'avras afiee 
1310 Ta foi que ncl diras, ne par toi n'ert contee." 

" Ten^s, dame, ma foi com Tav^s devisee/' 

1293 Aportes la portee — 1293 wanHng—iifjl^ toute— 1297 uraie c— 
After 1297 A inserts : Cou ne st* pas enfant cest diable asanblee — 
1298 Ta n. u. mais q»^— 1300 Ne a nome na fentne ki soit d. m. n. — 
X301 Nesterara ceste cosse . . . ra9tee— 1302 ^ Isi . . . acreantees N 
DOT soi— 1330 ma'ke de la ualee— 1304 wanting'-i^ N II— i3o6r mes 
Hces hon fois mas a.— 1307 suige pas 1.— 1308 N rien 2l i, A cosse ai 
a uure que uel que soit celee — 1309 si laras afiee-^ijio mostree. 



NAISSANCE DV CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 39 

'* Fai moi deus cofinials en la selve ramee, 
Si mes apocte 9a anuit a la vespree.*' 
Cele dist, et il iait ; n'i a d demoree. 
131 5 Fait sont, a li revient apr6s none sonee. 

El les prent s'a mis ens assez herbe fenee ; 
Si conmanda as dames c'on mece ens la portee 
Dont la feme son fil ert morte et enterree. 

\T AINTE fois en proverbe selt li vilains retraire 

1320 ^^ Que taie norist sot ; ceste fait le contraire : 
Ne nourist sot ne sage, car ele est deputaire ; 
Ains ocit et destruit, nen velt norepon iaire. 
Double mere est la taie quant ele est debonaire, 
Mais des enfans son fil set moh bien mordre faire ; 

1325 Tant com ses fils est fors est ele et dame et maire, 
Mais s'il fiist en maison, n'osast por son viaire 
Mostrer son felon cuer, qui est de mal a£iire. 
" Monicier»" dist la dame, *' anuit a la brunaire 
Des estoiles del ciel me querr6s un repaire 

1 330 En la forest qui est de ces bestes corsaire ; 
Porte ces cofinials dont en ai une paire 
La u je mais n'en oie rien nule qui desplaire 
Me puist ci ne aillors ; ses que jo te voel faire ? 8^ 

Provost^ te donrai apr6s, si seras maire 

1335 D'un castel que jo ai, que jo tieng en douaire ; 
(^oti ne te porra mie mes fils li rois retraire." 
'* Dame,*' dist Moniciers, " de vostre bien atraire, 
Qui me vauroit doner tos les poisons de maire, 
Ne les prendroie jo, por qu'il vos dust desplaire. v 

1340 \TONICIERS atent tant que nuis soit enserie ; 

^^ Ne velt pas que on face de lor liu baerie. 

Car il velt sagement &ire la conmandie 

Sa dame la roine qui molt en lui se fie. 

Son ceval ensiela, ses cofinials n*oblie ; 
1345 II s'est mis a la voie en la selve en hermie, 

1312 seule — 1314 Cil li dist fait seront sans nule demoree — 1315 Fait 
la et si revint— 1317 Sa 9mande as dames ca portes la portee— 1317 
wanting— i^ii^ Ceste parole siut li uilains rnKt retraire— 1320 Que taie 
norir siut— 1321 Nen uiolt norecon faire— 1322 locist s.— 1323 D. m. siut 
est'e taie kist d.— 1524 so iu fere— 1325 T. q»^— 1326 mie ce faire— 13J7 
wanting—ixA Marke cou dist . . . alluminere — 1329 queras— 1331 Por- 




1339 Ne feroie lou cosse ki uous deust desplere — 1340 
kes atendi . . . fu— 1341 sor— 1342 N A sa— r34j wanting— ly^ Ses 
cevaos e. son afaire— 1345 H est . , , nen set mot la mesnie. 



40 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 



Et cevalce as estoiles; s'a Tespee sacje. 

Crois a fait en son front, jque malf^s nel quivrie. 

II ira bone voie, car Damedex le g^ie. ..... 

I] avoit ja err^ .vij. Hues et demie, 

1350 Et li coc ont cant6, il a la vois oie ; . 

Del chief a or6 Deu, de lang^e le gracie : 
" Dex ! " fciit il, "que puet estre que j'ai ci en baillie, 
Que ma dame mist ci et onques n*en vi mie ? '' . 
Aparmain le sent jo, que por le fain fdrmie ; 

1 355 f*^r foi, que que ce soit. je sai bien qu il a vie. 
11 jete la sa main si sent car qui mdlie : 
** Dex, jo quit que c*est enfes, se dex me face aie ; 
J a par moi n'ert don6s a beste en sauvecie, 
Se jo puis trover liu que de mort soft garie. 

1360 Li peci6s soit ma dame de ceste felonie/* 

« T^ANT a err6 li sers, molt li puet anuier, 

^ Mais por pit6 le laise, qu'il nes velt descargier, . 

Son fais ; ains ira tant, se il puet avoier, 

K'il trovera foillie u maison u mostier . , 

1365 ^ il P<^ra son fais aombrer et mucier, ^ , 

Que leu ne autre beste nes veniscent mangier. ; 

Tant ala totes voies qu'il ol abaier 

Un cien, et dist que la vaura il repairier, 

Se il puet et il troeve en aucun liu sentier. 
1370 Totes voies cevalce et fait le bos froisier, 

Por 90U, se li ciens Tot, que plus doie noisier, 

Et il sivra I'abai. fK)r sa'voie abregier. 

II cevalce a I'abai, pense de I'esploitier 

C'ainc ne fina si vint tot droit a .i. mostier. 
1375 Petis ert et devant ot .i. peneanchier '' 

U li bons horn seoit le jor por ombroier, 

Qui laiens ert ermites et Deu avoit molt cier. 

II estoit ja lev6s s'ert al^s saumoier 8** 

De devant son autel, por Deu esloengier ; 
1380 Et li ciens si sivoit .i. leu qui el buscier 

Ert venus en la haie por les bestes mangier 

Que Termites faisoit la au vespre encoitier. 

Moniciers descendi, s*a pendu .i. panicr 

A la loge devant tot serr6 le .mostier, 
1385 Et Tautre a la fenestre Fa u soloit mucier 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 41 

Li ermites son cief por lui esbanoier, 
Por esgarder le tans, quant il devoit cangier, 
U li airs estoit mius, u devoit esdairier. 
Moniciers se retomc, n'i velt plus detriter, 

'390 Tot issi com il vint est retom^s arrier. 
II n'avoit pas al6 d'une Hue .1. quartier 
Quant li aube creva, qu'il prent a ravoier, 
Et il a tant eiT6 k'a eure de mangier 
Refu la dont il vint, n'i fait autre dangier ; 

1395 Asiet soi a la table dal6s .i. escuier. 

Sa dame quant le voit prent soi a leecier, 
Mais ne le vaut illuec devant gent araisnier. 
Quant il orent mangi6, si vont napes sacier 
Senescal qui 90U ert en cief et en mestier, 

1400 La dame entre en sa canbre sor .i. lit apoier, 
Et par une pucele a mand6 Monicier. 
Cil vint, qui 90U atent, sans point de detriier, 
Et quant il sont ensamble la canbre font widier ; 
Dont se prendent ensanble andoi a fabloier. 

1405 ** Dame," 90 dist li sers, " pen6 m'ai d'esploitier 
Le besoigne que vos me conmandastes ier ; 
Fait est si que jamais n'en or6s jor plaidier ; 
J'ai bien al6 .x. Hues par le bos en ramier, 
Por querre u jou peiisce jus mon &is descargier ; 

1410 N'est pas la u le mis, s*il i ot que mangier." 
'' Tu as bien fait, amis, tu aras bon loier, 
De quanque t*ai promis ne te vaurai boisier/' 

I le lairons ensi, si dirons des enfans 
Qui sont es coRnials que porta li serjans. 

14 1 5 En la chapele estoit li ermites laians 

La nuit devant I'autel tos sens et tos dolans 
Des peci6s qu'avoit fais, dont estoit repentans ; 
Matines ot cantees, si n'ert pas aparans 
Li jors, ains atendoit que il fast auques grans, 

1420 Por canter prime et messe, et puis s'alast as cans, 
Et fouir et hauer a paine et a ahans, 
Por semer .i. poi d'orge, dont il aroit al tans 
Por lui et por sa suer qui o lui ert manans ; 9* 

Car il avoit paor durement del cier tans. 

1425 II vint a la fenestre sel desfrema laians ; 

II Tovri, mais n*avoit ciel n*estoiles luisans. 



c 



•\. 



42 NAISSANC£ bU CHE VALH^H A U CYGNE, 

Li paniers ert encontre qui li vait aombrans ; 
II ne set que 90U est, molt s'en va mervellans. 

T I ermites ne puct veoir ne esgarder 
1430 Le jor par la fenestre que il soloit mirer ; 

Li vaisel sont encontre si nes pot remuer. 

" Dex," fait il, " que 90 est qui me puet estouper 

La fenestre par u li jors me seut entrer ? " 

II est al6s entor si a fait enbraser 
^435 Une foille de sap por cele cose oster; 

Le vaissel a overt, le fain prent a oster, 

Quatre enfans a trov6 au fain desvoleper. 

" Ce m'a Dex envois," fait il, '* al ajomer."* ' 

II a remis le &in por le caure garder ; 
1440 Lieve les iex.en haut, si vaut Deu ^rdtier, 

L'autre cofind voit si le cortTemuer, 

S'a trov6 .iij. en&ns ; or eri piiet .vij. conter, 

Ki tot li sont rem6s por noiirir et garder. 

**bex," 90U dist li ermites, "jo t'en doi aorer, 
1445 Que leus ne autre beste nes vint ci devourer ; 

Molt sont bel, Dex les vaut a s'ymage former." 

II en va sa serbr Ennogene apeler. 

*' Suer," 50 dist li sains hom, " molt devons Deu amer, 

Qui mervelle tios velt sifaitement mostrer ;' 
1450 il nos a envois .vij. enfans a garder, 

Jou parins, vos marine en soions al lever. 

Faites une cuviele la devant eel autet 

De la clere fontaine et enplir et raser ; 

Et aubes porve^s as enfans affubler. 
1455 G'irai jusqu'a .vi. Hues prestre Vinjan rover, 

Qu*il me prest oile et cresme por els lor droit doner.";. 

Cele respont : " Por Deu servir en bien ovrer 

Ne me verrfe vos ja, se Deu plaist, reculer." 

Cil s'en va si com cil qui n'a que demorer, 
1460 Vint al prestre Vin9an sel prent a saluer. 

Cil li rent son salu, si le cort acoler : 

" Comment est? que vos faut? ven6s vos resposer." 

" Sir6," fait li ermites, " faites nos delivrer 

Oile et cresme a enfans en fons rengenerer ; 
1465 Dex m'en a don6 .vij., jo nes doi refuser." 

" Volentiers, bels dous sire, foi que doi S. Omer, 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AV CYGNE. 43 

Car a si fait besoing le doit on aprester. 

Enne vos plaist an9ois .1. petit a disner?'* 9** 

" Neiiil/' dist li ermites^. " car jo me voel haster ; 
1470 Ne sai se li enfant pueent tant demorer. 

II a pris son ^iaire si s*en prei)t a raler, 

En maison est venus tos las a Tavesprer. 
^ ; " Que font nOstre enfant, suer, pueent mais cndurer ? *' 

" on," dist ele, " sire, yos po6s bien souper.*' 
1475 " Non, suer," dist li ermites, " il nos estuet pener 

De ces enfans an^ois ; al6s les aporter." 

Cele est corue pruec et il va por le sel ; 

Les enfans persegna, non lor fist deviser, 

Crois el front et el vis et sel a savourer, 
1480 Le nejS et les orelles de salive limer, 

Et les beneijons que il set bien canter. 

Puis les met el mostier et ses fait regarder, 

Que netement peiissent es benois fons entrer. 

Tot sont net, et mis sont en fons rengenercr ; 
1485 Es pis et es espaulles sont enoint d'oile cler, 

Et cresme lor a mis en son le cerveler, 

Non le Pere et le Fil, que Dex puet tant amer, 

Et le S. Esperit, que il les puist garder. 

Dont lor fait ci6s et pi6s en dras envolepcr 
1490 Et candoiles es mains, et donques reposser, 

Et del lait de ses chievres a grant plent6 doner 

Et de ferine d*orge papines conrecr. 

Mais une cose i a que ne fait a celer, 

Dont li sains hom se prent sovent a porpenser : 
^495 Que quant il les leva, a cascun .i. colcr 

Trova loi6 el col, de bon fin or tot cler. 

D'ensi que les trova n'en vaut nul remucr, 

Et conmanda tres bien c'on lor face salver. 

'* En foi," dist li ermites, ** or est tans de souper ; 
1500 Dex otroit nos enfans jehir et amender." 

T 'ESTOIRE nos a dit la devant et cont6 
^^^ Que rois Lotaires ot men6 tot son bam6 
Encontre .i. roi paien, et si Tavoit mat6 
Tant qu'il tenoit la loi de la crestient6 ; 
1505 Et ses parins estoit si I'ot de fons lev6, 
Se li avoit assez de sa terre don6 



44 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYCNE. 

Et les soldoiers ot lor soldees livr6 ; 
II aloit par sa marce gardant sa salvet6. 
Entrues avoit sa feme cest siecle trespass^, 

15 lo Et on avoit le cors festelment enterr6. 
^o ne set nient li rois au corage adur6, 
Nequedent si a il a ce sovent pens6 ; 
Car il avoit son cors laisi^ molt agrev6 
De la grande hascie del iais qu'avoit port6. 

1 51 5 Sa mere a pris en li de faintise .i. pens6 : 
Ele en apele a li .i. sage clerc letr^ ; 
Ses canceliers estoit, s'en faisoit son priv6. 
" Canceliers, je vos quit home de grant bont6 ; 
Je vos voel regehir .i. mien parfont se€r6, 

1520 Mais gard6s que par vos ne soit nului mostr6/* 
*' Ne place a Deu, ma dame ; saci6s par verit6, 
Ja vo consel n*or6s de moi escandel6." 
" Escris dont," dist la dame, " salus et amist6 
A Lotaire mon fil, que je Tai molt am^ ; 

'525 De sa feme Elioxe o le gent cors moll6, 
Morte est, et si avons ja le cors entier6. 
Grossc fu voirement, et si s*a delivr6 
De .vij. serpens qui ont tot son cors descir6, 
Et de mors et de trais trestot envenim^, 

1530 Et apr6s se sont mis fen Tair, s'en sont vol6 ; 
Et de 90U sommes nos molt forment adol6, 
Ne jamais ne serons por rien reconfort6, 
Si iert a vos venus s'ara a vos parl6. 
Escrisi6s 90, bels sire, que vos ai endit6/* 

1535 Cil escrist erranment, que tot ot aprest6, 
Et quant il Tot escrit si Ta enquarel6 ; 
Et la dame le prist si Ta enseel6, 
S'apela son corliu : ** ^a ven6s, Malmen6, 
Va tost al roi sel quier tant que Taies trov6 

1540 De ma part le salue, et lui et son bam6, 
El les letres li done, si aras fait mon gre." 
'* Fait iert, dame," dist il, '* tot a vo volenti." 

T I corlius fu tos pres, va s'ent sans atargier, 
^^^ Trois jornees corut, car le pi6 ot legier ; 
1545 A le quarte fist tant qu*a cure de mangier 
Vint al roi sel trova : tos iert las de plaidier. 
II li bailie le brief, li rois le fist froissier 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNB. 45 

Son capelain qui la estoit sos .i. loner ; 

Le brief desploie et list, si a pris a nonder 
1550 Al roi 50U que les letres sevent senefiier. 

Ensus se traient tot, et prince et chevalier. 

** Vo mere vos salue, car ele vos a cier ; 

Vo feme si est morte, s'en a grant destorbier. 

Grosse fu ; quant 50 vint a son fais descargier — 
^555 Sire, se je Tos dire, ne vos doit anuier." 

. " Di tost,'* 90 dist li rois, " Quanc'on m*a fait nonchier." 

" — .VIJ. serpens aporta, qui son cors entoscier 

Eurent fait et desrompre, onques horn maniier 9** 

Nes peut, qui lu6s n'eiist tot le cors hireciet ; 
1560 Saci6s que tant estoient li serpent lait et fier." 

" E ! las," ce dist Lotaires, " de grant dolor plenier 

A fait men cors avoir qui 90 m*a fait nonchier ; 

Or avoie grant joie, or ai grant destorbier. 

Ne se puet nus el monde longement leecicr, 
'5^5 Qu'en la fin de se joie ne Testuece estancier 

Aucune anons it6s qui fait son cuer ploier. 

" TD ELE Elioxe, k'est noblet6s devenue, 

Molt m'estes ore tost et emblee et tolue ; 

Poise moi que je n'ai encor novele eiie. 
^570 Je quit que Dex ait fait de vostre arme sa drue, 

Se vos a fait el ciel porter en une nue. 

Onques de toutes femes ne vi si bele nue ; 

Dex et Nature i misent tote leur entendue, 

La biaut^s que avi6s m'estoit el cuer ceiie. 
1575 Sansue trait le sane quant se tient a car nue, 

Ausi vostre biaut6s m'a saci6 et tolue 

La joie de mon cuer u grans dolors m'argue. 

Mar fu vostre biaut6s, dont m'arme est irascue, 

Et vo vertus ausi qui mon cuer me partuc ; 
1 580 Tant com vos vesquisi^s ne me fust ja tolue 

Honors, ne segnorie ja ne me fust teiie, 

Moi et tote ma gens, la grans et la menue. 

Par vos primes m*estoit ceste gracie venue, 

Que j 'avoie victore de la gent mescreiie ; 
1585 De la joie del ciel soit vostre ame peiie.*' 

I baron s'esmervellent, qu'est le roi avenu : 
Grains estoit joians, or a le giu perdu. 



L 



46 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYCNE. 

II sont venu avant, mais ne sont pas meu. 

" Sire rois, qu*av6s vos ? de qu'as consd creu ? 
1590 Entre toi et ton derc as tu dam^e eii ? 

Quel besoing t*a tes clers ore ramenteii ? 

Puisque sommes ici d'ostoier esmeii 

Tu nos as de soldees trestos si bien peii 

Et nos sommes si bien de t'amor enbeii, 
1595 Quanqu'il en a id, li grant et li menu, 

Isi bien nos i6s ore trestos el cuer keii, 

Que se vels guerroier Mahomet et Kahu, 

Prenderons nos avuec, ja n'ert contretenu." 

" Segnor," 90 dist li rob, " et grant joie et salu 
1600 Vos doinst tos Damedex, bien m'av6s maintenu, 

Et vos estes trestot mi ami et mi dm ; 

Mais bien sad6s, por voir, que molt m'est mesceu. 

La roine Elioxe m'a tot mon cuer tolu ; lo* 

Cert la plus sage dame qu'encore aie veil, 
1605 Molt m'a la soie mors durement confondu. 

Quant s'aie et son sens m*a si tost retolu." 

" Sire," dient li prince, " Dex a molt grant vertu, 

Mellor ar^s encore c'onques de ne fii. 

Nus ne doit desperer, mais avoir bon argu ; 
1610 Mellor ar6s encore, Dex doinst s*arme salu." 

"OEGNOR," 90 dist li rois, " bone gens honoree, 
^^ Beneoite soit Teure que fustes assanblee. 

Ral6s en vo pais, cascuns en sa contree ; 

G*irai veir ma mere qui*st molt desconfortee, 
1615 Sel reconforterai car molt est adolee." 

Or cevalce li rois a maisnie privee, 

Por qu*il est en sa terre, n*a cure de posnee. 

Or cevalce a grant force si haste sa jomee : 

Au tier9 jor descendi en sa sale pavee. 
1620 Quant sa mere le vit, a terre ciet pasmee, 

Et il a d*autre part sa chiere envolepee 

Del cor de son bliaut qui'st de porpre roee. 

Chevalier qui la sont la dame ont relevee ; 

Sous piece, quant se fu .i. poi reporpensee, 
1625 Ses crins trait, bat ses palmes, sa face a desciree ; 

Dont s'est a hautes vois comme feme escriet : 

** Ma fille, u estes vos ? qui vos a emfK)rtee ? 

Jo vos amoie tant, ma fille douce nee. 



. NAISSANCE DU CtiEVAUER AU VYGNE. 47 

Com se jo vos eiisce en mon ventre portee. ^ 

1630 La ipors, u iestes vos, qui le m'av4s enblee ? " 

^ou est fa^use dolors, por toute la criee ; 

Mais li rois qui son cuer ot torble et sa pensee, 

Ne se pot adeser, car il Tot molt»amee. 

Ass6s i a de ce]3 qui dolor pnt menee, 
1635 Por la dame li un, li autre por la fee 

Qui pie9'a estoit morte et en terre posee, 

Por lor segnor li autre a qui nient n'agree. 

Cil se demaine si comme feme.adolee* 

T3LANTOLS, uns chevaliers qui ert de sa maisnie, 

1640 ^ Molt Tama ; ses n\€s ert, de sa seror joie. 
II saut sus, ja dira parole bien oie : 
*' Oncles, tu i6s tenans de molt grant segnorie, 
Grant terre as desos toi en garde et en bailUe, 
Se vient a ton besoing molt grans cevalerie, 

1645 ^^ ^^^ vienent a toi en force et en aie. 
Se il savoieht ore que menasces tel vie, 
II ne te priseroient le vaillant d'une alie : 
Femes doivent plorer quant cuers lor atenrie, 10** 

On les doit conforter qui les tient de maisnie. 

1650 Tu amas molt la dame et ele fu t'amie, 

Dex mete la soie arme en pardurable vie ; 
Fai faire-Sor le cors mostier u abeie, 
Et s'i met <ie tes rentes et si asiet clergie 
Qui par nuit et par jor.por Elioxe prie. 

1655 S6i6s de bel confoft, &ites ciere haitie, 
Reconforte ta mere qui tote est esbahie ; 
Se tes cuers est dolans, tostans fei ciere lie." 
** Bien dist Plantols li preus," 90 respont la maisnie, 
" Plus en fera li rois qu'a ses homes ne die ; 

1660 Cascun jor faCe aumosne, et par rente establie, 
^ui onques en demant, que il n'i faille mie/* 

I rois par bon consel devint bons almosniers, 
II done pain et ble, livres, marcs et deniers ; 
II a clers assanbl6s s'a fait novials mostiers, 
1665 Done livres, calises, vestimens, pailes ciers, 
Textes et candeliers et crois et encensiers, 
Et rentes lor dona tant com lor fu mestiers. 

|R sontassis li derc, ne finent de proier 
Tos les sains Damedeu, qu'il puisse consellier 



L' 



O 



48 NATSSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

1670 Roi Lotaire et sa mere et Tarme sa moillier. 

Auques se prent li rois de son duel a coisier, 

Si conpaignon le font auques esleecier ; 

Li chevalier le mainent sovent esbanoier, 

As eski6s et as tables et prendre et gaaignier ; 
1675 Mais en nule maniere nel pueent solacier. 

Une ore a pris li rois sa mere a araisnier : 

" Mere," dist il, " por Deu, molt me puis mervellier, 

Onques ne peuc oir le vert6 aficier, 

Comment fist Elioxe a le mort travellier. 
1680 D'unes letres que g'euc me ramenbra Tautr'ier, . 

Que en Tost m'envoastes par .i. gar9on corsier ; 
Jo en fis lu6s le cire mon capelain Troisier, 

II me commen9a lu6s mervelles a noncier. 

Or me deveri6s vos mot a mot acointier : 
1685 Bien sai qu'ele fu grosse; qui fu au travellier?'* 

*' Bels fils," 90 dist la mere, " vels tu reconmenchier 

Ton duel et ta tristrece et ton grant destorbier ? 

Grosse fu, voirement, d'un hisdeus adversier 

Ki tot son bels cors fist de venin entoscier ; 
1690 ^o fu uns lais serpens, jo le vi hirecier. 

Ele s*en delivra ; quant on le dut baillier. 
Si esbati ses eles sans plus de detriier, 
Si essora en I'air, n*ot soing de repairier. 10^ 

Le cors de li fist si durement martriier, 
1695 Ne mires ne carnins ne li pot ainc aidier. 

Morte fu, s'enfouimes le cors pres del mostier." 
•* E ! Dex," 90 dist li rois, " com jo euc son cor chier/* 
Dont conmence a penser et son cief a broncier : 
" Ha ! Dex, ele me dist c'al premerain couchier 
1700 Que seriiens ensanble, por nos cors delitier, 
Ke 11 li convenroit .vij. enfans encargier ; 
Al mostre aroit cascuns caaine al col d'or mier." 
Or parole ma dame : ** D*un si fait aversier 
Jo ne sai mais le quele je tiegne a menjoignier ; 
1705 Jo Ic lairai atant, n'en voel plus fabloier.'* 

Or est li rois tos seus, veves et sans moillier, 
Fieremeiit tient sa terre, n*est en nului dangier ; 
N*a si hardi voisin qui ja Tost gueroier. 
On le tient por bon home et por bon justichier ; 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER ^U CYGN£. 49 

1 7 10 De nul jugement dire ne velt il detriier, 

Mais tost apr6s le clain jugier et afaitier. 

Issi tint il sa terre .vij. ans sans enconbrier ; 

Dont li est pris talens de lire et d*encerkier 

Quans travers, quans treiis tenoient si voier, 
17 15 Et si viegnent molt bien center a Teskekier. 

Li clers list les escris, si troeve tel rentier, 

Bien a pass4 .vij. ans que il ne vint paier, 

Tel i a .iij., tel deus ; le roi prent anuier, 

Ja lor vaura par letres de son talent nonchier. 

1720 T I rois garde le clerc, si li sanble sa9ant : 

•*"^ " Escrisi6s as rentiers que jo par brief lor mant» 

Dedens .xl. jors viegnent faire creant 

De quanque il a moi doivent estre rendant ; 

Et si viegnent garni si com por droit faisant." 

1725 Li clers a fait les letres trestot al roi conmant, 
Et le saiel de cire et le brief fors pendant. 
Li rois a regard^ et ariere et avant : 
** Qui portera ces letres ? U i6s tu, Malquidant V* 
Entrues qu*il regardoit, estes vos .i. serjant, 

1730 Je quit c*on Tapeloit Rudemart le vaillant ; 
A son pere ot est6, se li ot don6 tant 
Dont il avoit assez a trestot son vivant 
Ses pere Tot molt cier, qu*il le savoit savant, 
Ses terres et ses fi^s et ses rentes contant ; 

1735 Li rois Ta apiel6 et il i vint errant 

" Rudemart," dist li rois, " n'i voi plus aparant 
De la besoigne faire mais el mulet anblant. 
Mont6s tost si port^s ces letres a garant ; 
Quel part que vos ven^ c'on vos port honor grant, 

1740 Car 9*a escrit es letres que ve6s ci pendant. 
Si dites mes rentiers, si com il sont coillant 
Mes rentes, mes treiis ausi soient rendant, 
De 90U qu'il ont reciut de droit conte faisant 
Dedens .xl. jors devant moi en presant ; 

1745 Et se il 90 ne font, mal m'ierent atendant." 

"D UDEMARS li respont : " Bien ferons vo conmant." 
-^-^ Les letres prent, si va a la roine errant. 
" Dame," dist il, " j*en vois le preu le roi querant." 
Rudemars s'aparelle si com de bien errer ; 



5D NAiSSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

\*lfp II fait des .iiij. pi^s son mulet refierer, 

Sa siele renaier, son penel rabourer, 

Esperons et estriers, 9aingles por re9aingler ; 

Con mes ses torselieres ne vaut il oblier, 

Hueses, cape et capel, por son core aombrer, 
1755 Et boiste por ses letres, que mius les puist garden 

Quant Deus done el demain que dut Taube crever, 

II prent se cose preste si s*en prent a aler. 

Or s'en va Rudemare, ne velt plus demorer^ 

Por les baillius le roi qu*il set molt bien trover. 
1760 Molt set bien u il mainent, n'en puet nus escaper ; 

II les semont trestos devant le roi aler, 

Por conter devant lui u por gage livrer ; 

U sans gage u sans plege n'en poront retorner. 

Tostans mostre ses letres, por lui asseiirer. 
1765 Bien a .vij. jore err6, ainc ne vaut sejomer ; 

La u prist le disner, la ne vaut ainc souper. 

Les baillius de la marce a il fait tos tranbler ; 

S*al .xl.isme jor ne sont la por conter, 

Li rois a lor mesaise les en fera mener. 
1770 Cil li otroient tot, ne I'osent refuser. 

Car il mostre ses letres qu'il pueent molt doter. 

Cil a fait son message, met soi el retorner, 

Mais c'est par autre voie, car il s'en vek raler, 

A grans jomees velt le pais trespasser. 
1775 A Lesbon, .i. castel, la va prendre .i. disner, 

Et puis se met a voie por son oire haster. 

Passe .i. grant brueroi, puis li estuet entrer 

En une grant forest, mais ne s*i sot garder : 

II ne trueve maison u il puist osteler, 
1780 Et li jore se tornoit del tot al avesprer. 

II se crient de sa beste, des leus del devourer. 

Car se il fust a pi6, garandir et tenser 

Se peiist et deseure .i. grant arbre monter ; 1 1* 

Or li estuet a terre lui et son mul garder. 
1785 La for6s si est grans, maint ore et maint sengler. 

Qui le cerkast a ciens, i peiist on troven 

La nuis n*ert mie torble, la lune luisoit cler. 

II se trait sos .i. arbre por son cors reposer, 

Et il va a sa mule le frain del cief oster 
1790 Et rar9on de sa sele li va outre jeter ; 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALl£R AU CYGNE. 51 

Le cavestre li lace el pi6 por eschaper. 

La mule paist de Terbe tant com en puet trover ; 

De Tavaine nel pot nient aprovender. 

II s'asiet desos Tarbre, car ne set u aler, 
1795 Saine soi del deable, que nel puist enganer, 

Et si atrait le braiit dont li cotel sont cler ; 

Del dormir n*a talent, ains est en mal penser, 

Issi li convint la tote nuit demorer ; 

Et tantost com il vit Taube aparant crever, 
1800 Si met le frain sa mule si le vait re9aingler. 

II monte et quiert cemin por jornee haster, 

Mais an^qis sona. prime qu'il puist cemin trover, 

Et quant entr6s i est ne set u veut mener. 

Carit6 a ass6s de longement juner ; 
1805 II n'a ne tant ne quant dont il puisse disner. 

Vers none 01 .i.^ cien et glater et uUer, 

Ass6s I'a escout6» cele part velt tomer; 

Quant plus aproce pres, si a of canter 

Un chant que uns ermites fait en son mesgarder. 
1 8 10 II pense la a gent, la vaura osteler, 

Se Dex li consentoit que la peiist aler. 

"D UDEMARS tos lassez cele part vint traiant, 
^^ II estoit molt aflis, travail ot eii grant ; 
Encore estoit en juns des le jor de devant. 

1 81 5 II a trov6 rermite son cortil encloant, 

Dont les bestes li erent forment adamagant 
Li lievre et pore et cerf et li cevroel salant 
Toute jor li manguent ses col6s en brostant, 
Dusqu*a dont que li cien i vienent abaiant. 

1820 Rudemars a parl6 hautement en oiant : 

" Bels preudom, cil vos saut qui maint en Oriant, 
Et de la sainte Virgene nasqui en Belliant 
Por eel segnpr yos pri dont vos vois redamant, 
Que vos faites anuit une aumosne molt grant : 

1825 Laisi6s moi o vos estre hui mais a remanant, 
A mangier me don6s por Deu le raemant ; 
' Certes jo ne mangai tres ier none sonant, 
Toute jor ai err6 par <bos, par desrubant." w^ 

Cil a lev6 son chief si le vait regardant, 

1830 Avis li est qu'il soit preudom, a son sanblant. 

" Dont estes vos, bels sire, et qu'al6s vos querant?** 



52 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVCNE. 



" Sire, jo vois le preu mon segnor porcha9ant; 
Jo semoing ses voiers qu'a lui viegnent errant, 
£t si pore ci ses letres a cest saiel pendant" 

1835 " A MIS," dist li ermites, qui fu de bone vie 

.'**' Et de grant carit6, " hui mais n'en ir6s mie ; 
De la moie viande ar6s une partie, 
Et si prend6s hui mais o moi herbregerie ; 
C)st6s vo mul le frain ; en eel pre qui verdie 

1840 !^ loi6s par le pi6, qu*il ne s'eslonge mie ; 
Et s'en soi^s ass6s por gesir a nuitie, 
Car vos n'aver^ keiite fors de Terbe delie, 
Ne de linceus noient ; plus n'i ar6s aie." 
Rudemars fu molt li^s et de Diu le mercie ; 

1845 II a pris sa faucille s'a de I'erbe sole, 

Tant en porte en maison qu'il ne s*en repent mie ; 
Sa mule maine o lui, apr6s I'erbe le lie. 
L'ore atent de mangier, mais que molt li detrie ; 
Ne vaut mangier ses ostes, si fu tens de conplie. 

1850 II a tant atendu que Tore est avesprie. 
L*ermites garde en haut si a Tore saisie, 
II trait a sa chapele, si ore tant et prie 
Qu*il dist vespres-del jor et de sainte Marie, 
Et vegile des mors, par bon loisir fenie. 

1855 Dont vient a sa seror qui avoit en baillie 

Son pain et sa despense: "Suer, enmiudrons no vie ; 
Nos avons ci .i. oste, faites plus grant boulie." 
" Sire, au boin eur, ne m'atargerai mie." 
Ele prent sa ferine qui'st d'orge bien delie, 

i860 Et del lait de ses cievres (honte en ai que jel die), 
S*a fait le grant paiele .i. doit plus que mie. 
Quant la viande est quite et la table est drecie. 
On a devant cascun mis la soie partie. 
Dont samble Rudemart qu'il ait Puille saisie, 

1865 Tos les dainti6s le roi ne prise il une alie ; 
Molt manga volentiers, car famine Taigrie, 
De eel bon pain d'avaine et del mangier d'orgie, 
Et but de la fontaine qui bien est refroidie. 

13 UDEM ARS fu saous, et Deu en rent mercis 
1870 Et a S. Juliien, qu'a bon ostel Ta mis. 

II garda entor lui, si a veil lais 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

Enfans mangier ensanble, bien ed i avoit .vi. 
Tuit mengierent ensanble en pais et en sens, 
Ne font un point de noise, molt fu Tuns Tautre amis, 

1875 ^^ cascuns ot el col .i. loien d'or faids. 
C*esgarda Rudemars, s'en a jet6 .L ris : 
" Dex ! com je m*esmervel de ces enfans petis ; 
C*est la, 90 quitj lor mere qui tos les a norris ; 
D*un grant et d*un eage sont molt bien, ce m'est vis. 

1880 •' Ostes," dist Rudemars, " por les sains esperis, 
Sont tot cist enfant vo que je voi ci assis ? " 
" Ostes," dist li ermites, " j*en sui pere adoptis ; 
Jes ai gard6s ^aiens .vij. ans tos aconplis. 
Que jes trovai ensanble en fain muci6s et mis, 

1885 Et de saint cresme et d'oile tos crestiiens les fis, 
Et ma suer les a tos en si grant cure mis 
Qu'ele ausi comme mere les apele tosdis. 
Cel loien que cascun a entor le col mis 
Aporta il o lui, ja ne iere entredis, 

1890 Que por moi soit ost£s jusc'al jor del juis ; 
II est d'or et si croist a mesure tosdis/* 
. Et Rudemars respont : " Dex les garde, li pis." 
Li preudom rent ses graces a.Deu et ses mercis, 
Et Rudemars respont : " De Deu soit beneis, 

1895 ^^ ^^ P^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^ s^ raemplis." 
Quant ont ass6s parl6, si se traient as lis, 
Et Rudemars fait tant, ses mus est esternis ; 
Litiere li a faite trestote a son devis, 
Mais d'avaine doner n'est il ne fais ne dis. 

1900 Et Rudemars selonc s'est coci6s tos vestis. 
Car il fu las d*errer si fu tos endormis. 
La dort desci a dont que jors est esclarcis ; 
Et quant il voit le jor, errant est sus salis 
Et monte en son mulet qui*st d'esrer ademis. 

1905 A Toste prent congi6 si s'est d*illuec partis. 
Si a tant cevalci6 par bois et par lairis 
K'el demain endroit tierce al palais qui'st valtb 
En est venus au roi ; ja estoit miedis 
Quant il parla a lui, si li non9a ses dis 

19 10 Que si rentier mandoient par bouce et par escris : 
Li rois les a molt bien et volentiers ois. 
Al roi a pris congi€, d^lluec s'est departis, 



53 



54 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

A sa dame est venus qui Tot molt cier tosdis. . 

T A roine le voit, si li dist : " Bien vegni6s ! 

191 5 Que faites» Rudemart? estes vos tos haiti6s? 

Av^s vos ore bien vos travals emploi6s ?" 
" Oje, certes, ma dame, Dex en soit gracii^s. 
Dame, jo ai bien fait son conmant, 90 saci^s ; 11* 

Mais jo ai est6 puis durement esmai6s. 

1920 Quant me mis el repatre el bos fiii forvoi6s, 
Une nuit juc el bos sos le rain tos coci6s ; 
L'endemain errai tant que je fiii herbregi^s 
El bos ci6s .i. saint home, la fui bien pastoi^s ; 
La vi jou grans mervelles, dame, ja nel querri^s/* 

1925 ** Di, por Deu, Rudemart." — "AI bon eiir, oi6s : 
Je vi la .vi. enfans trestos bien arengi^s 
Entor une escuiele, et si bien afaiti6s 
C*un seul mot ne disoient, et s'ert cascuns loi6s 
El col d*une caaine dont li ors ert proisi^s, 

1930 Bons rouges ors d'Arrabe qui si est covoiti^s. 
Li bons hom les norist, Dex li ot envoi6s, 
Slerent tot d'un eage et d'un grant, 90 saci6s." 
'* Rudemart,'* dist la dame, "jamais mes amisti6s 
N'ar6s en vo vivant, se vos ne porchacies 

^935 De ces caaines d*or que vos le mes doigni^s." 
" Dame," dist Rudemars, " por nient travelli^s ; 
Jo nd lairoie mie por estre a mort jugi6s/* 
" Rudemart, paine t'ent, bien seras soldoi^s; 
Tu averas m'amor et des moies dainties. " 

^940 t? UDEMARS fu pensis, ne sot quel part torner ; 
En aucune maniere I'estuet atapiner, 

Qu'il revoist as enfans les caaines oster. 

Unes cisoires quiert dont il les puist colper, 

Et une vi6s eskerpe u il les puist bouter ; 
X945 Vi6s housials decrev6s et soUiers por aler, 

Cemise et braies noires, esclavine a fubler 

Et bordon que il fait tot de novel fierer, 

Et .i. capel feutrin por son cief aombrer ; 

Son vis a taint d'un fiel d'un grant pisson de mer 
1950 Qu*il avoit pie9'a fait al keu le roi ser\'er. 

Or est atapin^s, or pense del errer, 

•III. jornees a piet a fait por la aler. 



NAISSAJ^CE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 55 

A Termite est veivus sel prent a sermoner : 

" Sire preudom, por Deu qui le mont doit salver, 

1955 Que Dex en paradis face vostre ame aler! 
Laisi6s moi anuit mais avoec vos osteler ; 
Enfers sui et enfl6s ; ce quit, m'estuet crever. 
Sire, por Deu carn^s me, se vos sav4s earner, 
Xante mecine ai bute, nel puis mais endurer ; 

I0O As puisons S. Rumacle m'en alai meciner, 
Une fois sui a lis et Tautre voel crever, 
Lieve, por Deu, ta main, fai ma dolor cieser ; 
Se tu saines mon ventre bien porai esmiudrer/' I2» 

Li ermites le voit si ferment dolouser, 

1965 Ne li puet son ostel de piti6 refuser ; 

Fait li crois sor son ventre que il vit si enfler, 
£t dist .iii. pater nostres por le mius ajuer, 
Que deables ne puist mal baillir ne grever. 
Apr6s dist qu'il fera une erbe destemprer 

1970 Quant il vaura coucier, sel vaura abevrer, 

Que il puis ne le voie tantcom jors puet durer. 

**A16s seir, bels sire, ar6s vos reposer, 

U jesir sor cele herbe, car las vos voi d*esrer." 

T I pelerins malades fist molt feble sanblant, 
1975 A*^i se dolousoit com s'eiist grant ahant, 

Et Termites en a pit6 et dou9or grant. 

Des oes li a fait quire trestot a son talant, 

Mais de pain ne pot il gouster ne tant ne quant ; 

Del lait se fist doner com enfant alaitant. 
1980 L'ermites prent sanicle, .i. erbe verdoiant, 

Et osmonde et fregon, qui molt ot vertu grant, 

Se Testampe et destempre, vient a celui puirant. 

Cil le prent en sa bouce, de boire fait sanblant, 

Mais onques n'en passa le col ne poi ne grant, 
198s Ains le va entor lui en Terbe dejetant. 

L*er mites le saina si s'en ala corant, 

Que plus ne le veist en eel jor en avant ; 

Non fist il onques puis en trestot son vivant. 

L'ermites se cou9a et clost son huis devant, 
1990 Et cil remest 9a fors desor Terbe gisant. 

Si a lev6 la teste, entor lui va gardant 

Por veir de Tostel trestot le convenant 



56 NAISSANCE D U CHE VALIER A U CVGNE. 

La litiere a veue u gisent li eniant ; 

Ass^s sont pres de lui, mais si secreemant 
1995 Velt &ire son malise, si bien, si coiemant, 

Que nus de la maison nel voist apercevant « 

II dort si com li autre, s'atent tant convenant; 

La se gist et repose jtisqu'a Taube aparant. 

Li ermites se lieve, ses saumes vait rimant 

Et entre en sa capele, si a leii son cant ; 
2000 Et sa suer lieve sus, ses cievres maine en camp. 

La pucele se gist coverte d*un drap blanc, 

Li .vi. enfant remainent en lor lit tot dormant, 

L'ostes, qui son colp gaite, se lieve en son seant 
2005 Si regarde entor lui, s'esquerpe vait querant 

U les cisoires sont qui molt ont bon tren9ant. 

As enfans est venus* souavet en taisant, 

Les caaines lor coupe cascune o le pendant. 1 2* 

Tot remet en Tescerpe, le fer et Tor luisant ; 
2010 Dont revient a son lit, va soi aparellant, 

C'al cemin se velt metre tot sans congi^ prendant^ 

I tapins s'acemme, onques n'i prist congi£, 
Com cil qui coiement a fait sa malvaisti^ ; * 

Les caaines en porte qu'a conquis par peci6. 
2015 Es ie vos ens el bos tapi et enbusci^ ; '^ . 

II ne tient nul cemin, mais par .1. maresci^. 

Sans cauce etsans housel, sans caucer, tot mi pi6. 

Quant vint a miedi biert s'eh est eslongi^, 

Dont a pris son housel, si a cauci6 son pi6^ 
2020 Or s'acemine fort, bien a fait son marci£. 

Sans calenge a conquis tot 90 qu*a covoiti^. 

En .ij. jors et demi a il tant traVelli6 

Qu*il est la venus u li rois tint son si6, 

Mais par defors la vile a son estre cangi6 ; 
2025 Ainc de quanqu'il porta ne en main ne en pi6 

Ne retint fors Tesquerpe u il avoit muci^ 

I90U dont la roine li avoit molt proi6. 

II a repri^ ses dras que il avoit cangi6, 

A la roine vient, si s'asiet a son pi6. 
2030 " Dame," dist il, " cil sire, qui par sa grant piti6 

Vint racater le mont, que Malf^s ot loi6, 

Vos saut et qban qu'av6s mis en vostre amisti6." 

" Tu dis bien, Rudemart, comment as esploiti^ ?" 



L 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 57 

" Dame, jo ai tant fait, ves me ci repaint, 
2035 Et si ai tant al£ et quis et porchaci^ 

Que je vos aporc ci bon or, fin et proisi£ ; 
Faites ent vo plaisir ; '' et cil li a puiri£. 
La rome les prent, si Ten a mercii£ 
Et de bon gueredon I'a molt bien soldoi£. 

2040 ID UDEM ARS ot laisi^s les enfans en lor lis, 

'"'^ Tot ierent d'un eage, tot .vj. ass£s petis. 

Lor coses en porta com malvais et fuitis, 

II n'i avoit celui ne fust si endormis, 

S'on le vausist odre, ne s*en fust il fuis ; 
2045 Tant dorment li enfant que jors fu esclarcis. 

Quant li premiers se fu de son songe esperis, 

II dejete ses bras ausi com par delis. 

II send par les menbres, les grans et les peds. 

Que nature cangoit et en cors et en vis ; 
2050 Et en bras et en janbes par tot a pannes mb, 

S'est devenus oisiaus si blans com flors de lis ; 

De parole former n'estoit pas poestis. 

Ausi fist il as autres, tant qu'il sont trestot .vj. 13^ 

Blanc oisel devenus, si se sont en I'air mis ; 
2055 Mius resambloient cisne c'autre oisel a devis, 

II sont blanc s'ont Ions cob, et si ont les pi^s bb. 

Tot c'esgarda lor suer qui avoit son cief mb 

Desos son covertor, mab c*un poi pert ses vb ; 

Longement ot ba^ et esgard£ tosdb 
2060 Comment li pelerins qui estoit langeis, 

Quant il ne vit nului, si est al6s as lb ; 

Mab ne seut qu'il i fbt ; 'apr6s s'en est fuIs. 

I oisel sont en Tair s'aprendent a voler, 
Nature les aprent, qui les ot fait muer, 
2065 Estre d'ome en obel, mab la ne pot ovrer 

Que sens d'ome cangast [mab la ne puet ovrer.] 

Celui ont porsivi qub ert venus embler. 

Lor ensegnes qu'il durent lor eages porter 

Perdues sont, se Dex ne les velt regarder. 
2070 Porsivi ont celui qui nes pot eskiver 

Qu*il ne Taient veil la u il velt aler. 

El castel sont entr£ u Lotaires li ber, 

Qui rob ert de la terre, se faboit dangerer. 



L 



58 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

II amoit le castel, ne s'en vaut remuer ; 
2075 Ses pere 1 tint son si6, U le vaut restorer, 

Car la fu il norris, et la prist il a per 

Elioxe la bele, qui tant fist a loer ; 

La fu morte la dame, la le fist enterrer 

Et la seent les rentes dont fait messes canter 
2080 As esglises qu'il a fait del sien estorer. 

Li castials siet molt bien por home dangerer : 

D'une part est li bos u puet aler vener, 

Et d'autre part riviere sos le maistre piler 

De la tor u il puet cascun jor, al lever, 
2085 Par .i. petit guicet ses mains as flos laver, 

Et poissons assez prendre, por avoir al disner. 

Outre Teve sont pre c'on puet .ij. fois fener, 

Et fontaines i a dont li riu sont molt cler ; 

Apr^s ot .i. vivier u li rois fait server 
2090 Poissons grant de manieres, quant il se velt haster. 

Que pesciere qui pesce les puist tost aprester. 

Les vignes et Tarbroie n*i doit on oblier, 

Dont li vin et li fruit font forment a amer. 

Les coutures i sont por forment pur et cler, 
2095 Portent dont on poroit .iij. castels conreer ; 

Por ce se velt li rois adi6s la reposer. 

La sont al6 li cisne, la les fist trespasser 

Nature qui lor fist les eles por voler, 12** 

Et sens d*ome qui ^hace le laron qui embler 
2100 Ert venus 90U que Dex lor vaut tousdis server, 

Et la Deu porveance qui s'i vaut amostrer. 

El vivier se descendent si prendent a voler ; 

Poissons la troevent gros, la fist bon pasturer. 

"^ OVELE vint al roi que .vi. cisne novel 
2105 Mainent en son vivier, mais il font grant maisel ' 

Des poissons qui la sont, prendent a tel reviel 

Qu'a paines i remaint poisson ne pissoncel ; 

Mais il n'atendent home ne vienent a apel. 

" Conbien a," dist li rois, ** que la sont cil oisel ?" 
21 10 ** Sire, il a bien .x. jors que g'iere en eel praiel, 

Ses vi sor la fontaine ester ens el gravel, 

Et puis ses ai veus pelukier al solel." 

" Par Deu," ce dist li rois, " ce me est or molt bel. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

Or conmant qu'il n*i ait ne viel ne jovencel 
21 15 Qui de rien les quivrie, car en malvaise pel 
Meteroie sa car, et en malvais flaiel 
Jo le ferroie si que boulir le cervel ; 
L'i feroie a mes mains d'espee et de co.utel. 

pLANTOLS n'ot mie 01 ceste manace faire ; 
2 1 20 ^ Ni6s ert le roi Lotaire, et frans et debonaire. 

En riviere ert al^s, oisials porte .ij. paire, 

Cert ostoirs et faucon ; et arc porte por traire. 

Dont li vient uns hairons par devers son viaire ; 

Le faucon laisse aler qui de voler le maire, 
2125 Tant le maire et demaine qu'il Tabat ens el aire, 

Et en Taigue u li cisne qui'stoient tot Lotaire 

Ot conmand6 que nus ne lor face contraire. 

Et Plantols a grant paine fait son oisel fors traire ; 

Encor ne se velt pas vers son ostel retraire, 
2130 Car il voloit encore faire cose qui paire. 

II a son arc tendu si entoise por traire, 

Volentiers porteroit le roi bon quisinaire ; 

La saiete entesa desci al fer por traire, 

Mais la corde li fent desci que el tenaire, 
2135 ^^ ^i cisne s*en volent tres par mi le vivaire, 

Qu'il n*ont point de paor de Tarcier deputaire. 

Se Plantols fu dolans si pert a son viaire ; 

Qui tot le depe^ast , n'en peiist il sane traire. 

II a ru6 tot puer, si se met el repaife. 



59 



2140 



T L ot tant demor6, li rois sist al mangier ; 
'*' Plantols descent sos Tarbre, il et si chevali< 



chevalier, 

Lor cevals en menerent g^9on et escuier. 
Plantols s'en vait puiant sus el palais plenier, 13* 

Li rois se sist au dois, et Plantols qui f ot cier 

2145 L^ presente .i. hairon por lui esleecier. 

" Bels ni^s, u fustes vos al6s por rivoier ? " 
•' Bels sire," dist Plantols, "a eel for9or vivier 
Sos le bois fis aler un mien faucon muier ; 
Cest hairon eslevai, nel finai de cacier 

2150 Dusqu'a dont que il fu en .i. estanc plonci^s ; 
A paines peuc avoir mon faucon montenier, 
Et jo euc grant paor qu'il ne delist noier ; 
La avoit .vi. oisials, qui sont grant et plenier. 



6o NAJSSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

Et blanc com flors de lis ; jo pris mon arc manier, 

2155 Si en vauc traire a I'un, ne m'i seuc afaitier : 
La saiete fendi par dal^ le tenier, 
Li oisel s*en volerent, ne peuc nul ar9oicr." 
Quant li rois ot eel mot, si prent a courecier : 
" Comment ! " dist il, " Plantoul, g'euc &it mon ban crier, 

2160 Que nus ne destorbast les oisiaus del vivier ; 
Par les plaies mortels, vos le conperr^s der." 
Li roia saut %w% en pi£s, u il n'ot qu*a irier, 
Tient .i. coutel tren9ant qui tos estoit d'acier ; 
Ja alast son neveu ens el cuer estochier, 

2163 Quant salent contre lui doi jentil chevalier 
, Qui retinrent a force sel prendent a coisier. 
For 90U ne remaint mie, il prent la nef d'or mier 
Sel rue apr^s Plantoul qu'il voloit quaisier. 
Mais cil en est guencis joste .i. piler arier, 

2170 La nef hurte al piler si fait le pi£ froissier. 
Sa mere est sus salie sel corut redrecier, 
Et Plantols descendi contreval le plancier. 

I rois est coureci^s, grant piece se coisa, 
Et toute la vespree son maltalent runga. 
7175 Plantols est main lev^s, en la capele entra, 

La se fist joate Tuis tant que li rois venra. 

Li capelains i vint, de canter s*atoma, 

Rois Lotaires i vint, grant conpaigne mena ; 

II entre en sa capele, et cil qui covoita 
9180 As pi6s li est ceiis, et merci li proia 

Et trestot Ten proierent, et li rois Tenleva 

Et por tante proiere trestot li pardona, 

Par si que a ses cisnes nul jor mais ne traira ; 

Sor le«i sains de Tautel, de 90U Taseiira. 

ai8j C\^ est Plantols a cort ni& le roi et amis» 
^^ Des oisials del rivier est il eskius tosdis, 
Car li rois les a ciera et en cuer li sont mis, 
Et li oisel ont pais de tos ceus dou pais. 13^ 

Or pueent asseiir noer par le gueis 

2190 • Et manger des poissons, des grans et des petis, 
Ja par home vivant n'en ert fais contredis ; 
Et li pi£s de la nef qui estoit soldeis. 
Qui par maltalent fu jet^e au piler bis, 



L 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 6i 

Estoit tot defro^s et lav6s autresis ; 
2195 La mere au roi le garde si Pa en son sauf mis. 

Ele mande .i. orfevre qui estoit ses amis ; 

Cil i vient volentiers qui molt ert liueis. 

" Amis," dist la roine, " comment sera remis 

Uns pi^s en ceste nef et fors et bien assis, 
2200 Et la nes rebatue ? '' Cil respont a ses dis : 

" Le pi6 estuet refaire de nuef, trop est malmis. 

Voire," dist li orfevres, "j*en ferai .i. fondis; 

Se vos or me bailli^s, icis ert avoec mis." 

La roine aporta .iiij. anels d'or masis. 
2205 " Dame," dist U orfevres, " poi i a, ce m'est vis, 

A ce que vos vol^s, qu'il soit bels et jentis." 

La roine s'en va, n'a angle n'i ait quis, 

Des caaines li menbre que Rudemars ot pris ; 

Une en a aportee, mais 90 fu a envis. 
2210 Celi dist li orfevres : " C'est si bons ors jentis, 

Rouges, et par cestui ert Tautres colouris." 

Dont li dist la roine : '* As ent assez, amis ? 

Je quit bien puet soufire, se Tas en oevre mis." 

/^IL font et forge et oevre le pi6 si com devant, 
2215 ^^ Si que la nes sist bien sor table fermemant; 

Miudre est or assez et s*a le pois plus grant ; 

Molt plaist a la roine Tuevre que voit parant. 

L'ovrier a soldoi£ de bon loier vaillant. 

Car il a faite Tuevre trestot a son talant. 
2220 Tant a &it la roine par son loier donant, 

Qu'ele a les caaines de bon fin or luisant, 

C'orent entor les cols loi6 li .vi. enfant : 

Mais Tune en est desfaite, fondue en fu ardant, 

Et li enfant devinrent oisel en Tair volant. 
2225 Et tant sont aproci^ le cuvert souduiant 

Qu*il ierent el vivier sos le castel vaillant 

U lor ensegnes ierent que il vont porsivant. 

R nos estuet ariere a I'estoire raler. 
Li ermites del bos qui si soloit garder 
2230 Les .vi. freres germains qu'il ne pot endurer 
Qu'il eiiscent mesaise, s'il lor peust oster, 
Fu par matin al6s a son mostier orer. 
La fu bien tant que tans fu de prime soner ; - 13^ 



o 



62 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

Pense soi que tans est qu*en labor doit aler, 

^^35 Mais ains ira del pain a ses en&ns doner. 

D'un grant pain torte d'orge \-ait .\-ii. pieces colper, 
Dont est venus au lit por eux desvoleper ; 
Ne troe\'e se dras non. " Qu'est 90, por S. Omer ? 
Sont nostre en^t si main la fors a]6 juer ? ** 

2240 II va la u il suelent plus sovent converser, 
A tot le pain tailli6 les ala porgarder ; 
Quist amont et aval ses prist a apeler. 
Mais nus ne li respont, tant sace esfrois mener. 
Revient s'ent en maison, prist soi a regarder 

2245 La u lor suer cou9a al vespre apr6s souper. 

" Fille/' dist il, " vos freres, quis fist si main lever ? 
Jo lor iere venus 9a del pain ^porter, 
Por mengier dusqu'a dont que nos devrons disner, 
Car jo voloie aler .i. petit labourer ; 

2250 Or criem molt qu'il ne puisent tant lor fain endurer. 
" Sire/' dist la pucele, ** jo les en vi voler ; 
Li pelerins salvages qui donastes souper, 
II ala cascuns d'els entor le col limer, 
Dont si s'aparella si se prist a I'esrer. 

2255 Mi frere s'esvellierent, tos les vi tresmuer 
Et par cele fenestre la fors as cans voler." 
'* Fille/* dist li hermites, " tu ne fais fors gaber." 
'* Ne vos sai autre cose." fait ele. " raconter." 
Dist li sains horn : ** A Deu s'en puisent il aler, 

2260 El ciel avoec les angeles s'en puiscent il voler; 
Tien, fille, prent cest pain, pense del desjuner, 
Et g'irai en I'ortel aucune cose ovrer." 

"\TOLT fu dolans Termites de ses enfans petis, 
^^ Car al norir avoit et coust et travail mis. 

2265 II n*en a autre duel en son cuer entrepris, 
Mais il prie por els, que li Sains Esperis 
I.es avoit en tel liu qu'il ne soient malmis ; 
Nequedent s*atent il maintes nuis et mains dis, 
S*il en oroit noveles u en fais u en dis. 

2270 11 a bien atendu semaines plus de .x., 

Nus ne vient de pro9ain ne de loitain pais 
Qui li die ques ait veils ne mors ne vis. 
Vient s'ent a la pucele qui li cuers est pensis 
Et dolans de ses freres qu*ele ot perdus tos .vi. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 63 

2275 Dist li : " Ma douce amie, comment vos est avis 

De vos freres qu*av6s ensi desmanevis ? " 

" Sire," ce respont ele, " n'en ai ne giu ne ris, 

Ains en est en mon ventre mes cuers forment maris." 13** 

" Pucele, 50 est drois, perdu a^ .vi. amis, 
2280 Jo les ai longement et am6s et cieris, 

Et de 90U que j'avoie et gard6s et norris ; 

Et jel fis volentiers, certes non a envis. 

Alet en sont a Deu, ne sai quis a ravis ; 

Or en soit Jhesus garde et li Sains Esperis 
2285 Et tot li saint que Deus a avoec li eslis 

Por manoir avoec lui en son saint paradis ; 

Mien voel eiissent il al aler congi6 pris. 

" A MIE, fille douce, molt me venist a gre 
'^^ Qu'il eiiscent encore avoec moi demor6 ; 
2290 Porveii lor eiisce pain et dras, et don6, 

Tant comme il peiissent sofrir ma poverty. 

Mais puis que issi est, jo les conmant a De ; 

De lor vie soit garde la sainte Trinit6. 

Douce suer, je vos ai pres de .vii. ans gard^, 
2395 Bien quit que tot li .vii. sont conpli et pass^ ; 

Et vos meisme avoec, tot par ma volenti. 

En ir^s apr6s eux u Deu venra a gre. 

Ne vous voel mais garder, n'en voel estre encombr6 ; 

Bel enfant a en vos, assez av6s belt6 
2300 Et gent cors segnoril bien fait et bien moll6 : 

S'un robeor avoit en cest bos arest^, 

Tost vos aroit fait lait et vos mesaasm^, 

Nient por le vostre preu, mais por sa volent6 ; 

N'en voel estre en cremor ne en malvais pens6. 
2305 Al^s a une vile u il ait pain et ble, 

Serves a une dame tant qu'ele de son gre 

Vos doinse por service et loier et bont6. 

Gard6s vos de folor, gard6s vo caast^, 

Crem6s Deu et am6s, de bien ar6s plenty." 
2310 Et la pucele a tot 01 et escout6, 

Ne s'en pot pas tenir, durement a plor^ : 

" Sire, que dites vos, por Deu de majesty ? 

Qui m'avra si le pain sans dangier aprest6 

Comme vos le m'avi^s, et sans besoing, don^ ? 
2315 Nului ne conistrai quant tant arai err^ ; 



64 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 



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23^5 



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<V^> 



S*un8 horn m'a une nuit en son toit ostein, 

El demain par matin m'ara tost conge4. 

Sire, reten6s moi, por sainte carit6." 

" Non ferai, voir, pucele, ne me vient pas a gre." 

Dont prent .i. mantelet gros tisu, tot us£, 

Celi a sor le cief et contreval jet6, 

Et un de ses pains d*orge li a desos bout6. 

** Biele suer/' dist Termites, " n'ar^s gaires al6, 

Quant qui que soit verr6s d'errer acemin£, 

Qui V08 avoiera tant que ar6s trov£ 

Recet u bore u vile, castel u fremet^ 

La u vos vaurCs traire senpres a la vespr6." 

T *ERMITES lait sa fille ens d cemin plorant, 
'*'^ Si en revient ariere. Cele va r^^ardant ; 
Quant nel puet mats veir, si \z. ses poins tordant. 
Assise s*est .i. poi, a tant es vos errant 
•L tx^ellon qui maine sa laigne a .i. jumant 
** Damoisele/* dist il, ** vos men6s doi molt grant, 
Qu avfs vctt a plorer ? qui vos >*a destraignant ? '* 
'* Sir«/' dist la pucele, '* ja mais en roon \'i>'ant 
N'arai jo si boin pere com je ^-ob hui perdant ; 
G el bos m'a laisie« ens s*en re>-a mutant** 
*' Taisi6s \x>s. bde nee, j'ai a, petit ei^t 
\\^ nvjuir6s avoec moi sd m*tr6s conportant; 
Wn^s ent a\»ec moL'* Ele lie\"e en estant 
Si por»ut le bon home qui le \*a cariant : 
En maison est \^efius a soleil escoosanL 
E\*nMnc« sa KMiie« U \Sefii ester de\'ant. 
Ea $on bra^^ li apone son eiiftnyon riant. 
Oil me le cauesinc $cv le col del jumanL 
l/eo£)uit prettt en ses maitts sd babe en 
^ Evfoine." dbt iL *^ je v» joaftint sttgant 
^^ fK> til Qos ira au masw ci de£tanL^ 
'^ SiW'." di« E\fv>iJae. * »>»){$ jwts ^ dsans : 
K n A ee tvx v>nt saecW arcae a^ \i\^uai 
S^ K cwte< «Me a j:?»^Jkt TftCtt esacx. 

1 L *V«ft x>f«e e* matiik>uv *j^ iMf^se a 
^ KX $di Sw^ t?*jfc« a V ir^r^e Wc. 



14' 



b 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYCNE. 65 

Et la dame Evroine s*ostesse a herbregie, 

De sa viande I'a une nuit pastoie ; 

El demain Ta au mius qu*ele pot consellie. 

" A .X. Hues ci pres siet molt bien aaisie 
2360 Une vile u li rois Lotaires tient maisnie, 

Et si fait cascun jor molt grande departie ; 

Anne qui i venra n*en ira ja faillie, 

Qu'ele n*ait tant de pain qu'en sostenra sa vie. 

Por I'arme sa moillier qui del siecle est partie, 
2365 Bien a .vii. ans passes qu' isi fu establie 

L'aumosne a la roi cort, ne encor ne fait mie. 

La ir6s vos manoir, bde suer, doce amie ; 14' 

En .ii. jors i venr^s souavet ains conplie." 

La pucele respont et forment Ven mercie : 
2370 *' Damedex le vos mire, bien m'av^s consellie." 

Or s'en va la pucele, Dex li 5oit en ale ; 

Bien a le jor al^ .iij. Hues et demie, 

En une vile en entre, d'ostel ne rova mie ; 

Enmi le vile estut comme feme esbahie, 
2375 C»arde amont et aval et nule rien n'espie. 

La avoit une dame a son huis apoie, 

La pucele vit simple et de biaut^ garnie, 

Et a li herbergier ses cuers li asouplie. 

A li parole et dist : " Dont estes vos, amie ? 
2380 Que porgard^s vos ci ? av6s vos conpaignie ? " 

Cele li respondi comme feme asouplie : 

** Dame, je sui del bos, si m*en sui departie ; 

Mes pere ne me. velt mais avoir en baillie. 

Si m*en sui 9a venue, Dex me soit en aie ; 
2385 Jo n*ai nient d'ostel, ne de pain une mie." 

** Bele suer," dist la dame, " ne vos esmai^s mie, 

Hui mais remanr^s ci, en ma herbergerie ; 

Vos ar^s bon consel, si jo puis, et m'aie, 

Que ne remanr^s pas o moi desconsellie.** 
2390 En maison sont alees, s'a celi aaisie 

Desci qu*a Tendemain, que li jors esdarcie ; 

Del soleil qui leva est li caure raie. 

Les povres gens assanblcnt a la cort segnofie ; 

I^ seent et atendent tant c'aient recoillie 
2395 L'aumosne qui sera a cascun departie 

Por I'arme la roine, que Dex ait en baillie. 



2405 



66 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

** Bele suer," dist Tostese, " bien est drois que vos die : 
Vos ir^s a la cort a la grant departie, 
Si averts del pain por sostenir vo vie 
2400 .1. jor trestot entier desci que a conplie ; 
S'ir6s a la fontaine qui laval cort serie 
(N'est mie lone de ci, n*i a c'une hucie), 
Se vos en aport6s une boine buirie ; 
La voie est 9a desos, ne puet estre cangie." 

T ORS respont la pucele : ** Dame, molt volentiers ; 

^'' Mais por ce que n'i faille, g'irai al pain premiers.*' 

Son mantel afTubla qui molt estoit legiers, 

Qui de drap ert sans pel et si n'estoit pas ciers ; 

Vait s'ent laiens as autres si estut sor ses pi^s, 
2410 Se main trait et del pain li done I'aumosniers. 

Dont s'en va as fontaines, droit al cor des riviers 

Ki la sorgent et corent desous les oliviers, 14^^ 

Por le bont^ de Teve dont bels est li graviers ; 

S'asist la la pucele en qui n'est nus dangiers, 
2415 De mangier la son pain li est pris desiriers. 

Ele le brise en Teve, bons li est li moilliers ; 

Seci6s ert en son sain, s'en ert grans li mestiers. 

I cisne ontaperciut celi son pain mangant ; 
Li un vienent al no et li autre a \'olant, 
2420 La pucele qui'st la revont reconnoissant. 

Ele n'en connoist nul fors tant oisel volant 

Li samble que 90 sont, et paor en a grant. 

II vienent entor li, ele lor va soufrant, 

Le pain en la fontaine prendent premierement ; 
2425 Ele n'ose vers eux contrester de niant, 

Por 90 qu'il ont noirs bes, Ions cols et grant carpant. 

Quant cius de la fontaine lor fait, tot erranmcnt 

Si vont querre de Tautre en son geron devant. 

Cele est tote esbahie qui son pain va perdant ; 
2430 Quant ele n'en a mie, arriere va plorant, 

A paines ot sa buire enplie al riu corant ; 

Li oisel li venoient lor bes a li frotant. 

En maison vient ariere, ne vait mie tirgant. 

T *OSTES vit la pucele durement esploree. 
2435 '""^ " Comment est," dist a li, *' pucele bole nee ? 
Ki vos fist nule rien ? dites moi vo pensee." 



L 



c 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE, 67 

Ce respont la pucele : " Molt m*ont espoentee 

Li oisel del vivier, qui a une volee 

Me corurent tot sus quant jo fui avalee 
2440 Aval vers la fontaine por prendre une potee ; 

Moi sambloit que deiisce tote estre devoree ; 

Mon pain que j'euc jet6 aval en la ramee 

M'eurent il ains mangi^ que fuisce regardee, 

Et quant il lor fali, ainc.n'i ot demoree, 
2445 Le piece que jo tine es mains m'ont il hapee, 

Et puis en mon escor^ trestote la mice ; 

Hui mais morrai de fain, n*en ai mie servee. 

ILLE ce dist li ostes : " Molt me puis mervellier 
Que li cisne le roi vos vaurent aprochier ; 

2450 Feristes ent vos nul ? on n'en ose .i. toucier ; 
Li rois en vaut ocire son neveu avantier, 
Por 90U que il i traist une fois d*arc manier." 
•• Onques n'en tou9ai nul, dame, par S. Ricier." 
" Vos fesistes bien, fille, car a grant destorbier 

2455 Vos tornast, que li rois vos fesist escillier ; 

De mon pain vos donrai hui mais assez mangier, 
Demain en ir^s querre de Tautre al aumosnier. 14** 

Et se je le voi ci aler ne cevalchier, 
Je vos ferai li plait que mellor recovrier 

2460 En ar^s vos par moi, car en bien Tai molt cier. 
A tant cil passe la, si va esbanoier. 
L'ostesse Tapela : " ^a ven^s, Herquegier ; 
Ves ci une pucele dont je vos voel proier 
Que vos bien li facias, car ele en a mestier ; 

2465 Grant aumosne feroit quel poroit consellier." 

" Dont cstes vos, pucele, nel me dev^s noier ? " 
" Sire," dist la pucele, " je vine del bos Tautr'ier. 
^a m'envoia mes pere, ne me vaut plus aidier, 
Jo m*en sui 9a venue a le cort roi Lotier 

2470 Por avoir de I'aumosne, jo en ai grant mestier." 
" Bele," dist li vall6s, " se vos m*avii€s chier, 
A le fois vos donroie de pain plus grant quartier ; 
Lev6s haut vo visage, on ne doit pas bronchier." 
Prist le par le menton, se li a fait haucier : 

2475 " Qu'est 90U, ma douce amie, que voi la roujoier? 
Moi sanble que 50 soit de laiton u d'or mier." 



L' 



68 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNR, 

** Sire, ce est m^ensegne ; qu'en av6s a plaidier? 

Jo la portal al naistre, del ventre a la moillier 

Qui .ix. mois me porta ; quant vint al travellier, 
2480 Si fumes .vii. enfant, d*un ventre par^onier. 

Dont cascuns ot ensegne ausi faite d'or micr. 

Morte en fu nostre mere, Dex qui nos puet aidier 

Et en arme et en cors puist s'ame consellier ; 

Jo qui 9ui sans consel ne me voelle obliier." 
2485 " Bele," dist li vall6s, " n'ai6s soing d*esmaier, 

Se vos vol6s bien faire et soufrir mon dangier, 

Je me vaurai pener de vo bien avancier." 

I senescals s*en va, ne velt plus demorer. 
Tot le jor et la nuit ne fina de penser 
2490 Qu'il velt a la pucele priveement parler ; 

Engien li estuet faire, comment porra errer ? 

II les laira trestos en la cort aiiner ; 

Al cor u la pucele estoit alee ester, 

Ne velt pas cele part conmencier a doner, 
2495 Car il vaura a li sa donee finer. 

II cerke tot les rens, haste soi del doner ; 

Quant vint a ta pucele, son don li fait doubler, 

Del pain It done assez. plus qu'ele n*ost rover. 

D'illuec s*en est tomee la pucele al vis cler ; 
2500 As fontaines s'en va por de Teve aporter, 

Et si desire molt les oisiaus esgarder. 

Al riu siet et son pain conmence ens a jeter ; 15^ 

Li oisel qui pres ierent ne vaurent demorer, 

Li un vienent a no et li autre a voler. 
2505 La pucele nes vaut de rien espaventer ; 

II manguent le pain la u voient floter, 

Cele lor suefre tot ne nes velt destorber. 

Li senescals le roi, qui nel velt oblier 

Et grant desirier a qu'il voelle a li parler, 
2510 Sa despense conmande .i. serjant a garder. 

De lone vient, car il velt son afaire miref ; 

Voit entor la pucele les oisials pasturer. 

Ki li desist an9ois, nel vausistcreanter 

Que si priveement osascent abiter 
2515 Li oisel entor li, qui s*en soelent voler 

Quant nus horn les soloit veir ne esgarder. 

Li senescals conmence le petit pas aler, 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CY6NE. 69 

Ains cele n*en sot mot, sel vit les li ester 

Et li cisne conmencent tot vers lui a sifler. 
2520 Apr^s celi s'asist si le vaut acoler, 

Et cele I'aparole com ja oir por6s : 

" Ahi ! bels sire, en vos a si bel baceler, 

Quel desirier av6s de povre cose amer, 

Quant vos en tant maint liu po6s trover vo per ?" 
2525 Uns des cisnes s*eslieve, del giu le va haster, 

Que parmi le visage li fait Tele cingler. 

Cil jete apr^s la main, por ariere bouter ; 

Li autres par deseure Test venus assener. 

Si le fiert en la teste, le capel fist voler. 
2530 Li tiers le vait gaitant, por bien son colp jeter ; 

Tot .vi. li vont assez grant entente livrer. 

Tart li est qu*il se puist dlUueques desevrer; 

Son cicf de son mantel prent a envoleper, 

Si s*en fuit quanque pi6 Ten porent ains porter. 
2535 Li oisel sc sont mis ariere a retorner ; 

A la pucele vont et joir et fi-oter, 

Por 50U qu*il I'ont tensee del cointe baceler 

Qui la estoit venus a li por desreer. 

De la fontaine prent plain pot por aporter 
2540 A Tostesse qui Ta fait .ij. nuis Osteler. 

I senescals s'en est a cort venus fliiant, 
Encor quidoit il bien que li oisel volant 

Jusques a sa despense le veniscent cagant ; 

Assis s'est et li sans li revint en seant. 
2545 " Por les sains Deu !" dist il, " comme vols esmaiant 

For .iij. oisels u .liij., se jes vi la volant ; 

Et por 90U si me vient a mervellc si grant, i5*> 

C*onques tel oisel eurent sens et memore tant. 

Jo quit que mal espir vinrent en els entrant." 
2550 Sus lieve si s'en va ens el palais plus grant 

A son segnor parler, sel troeve la seant 

Sor une keute painte de paile escarimant 

Dormi avoit .1. poi, ses dois aloit frotant 

*' Que 50U est, senescal ? quel cose al6s querant ?" 
^555 " Sire, par les sains Deu, molt me vois mervellant 

D*une cose qui est hui cest jor avenant 

En cest vostre castel a .i. molt bel enfant. 

Molt bele mescinete, jovenete et croissant ; 



L' 



70 NA ISSANCE D U CHE VAL lER A U CYGNE. 

A vostre aumosne vient, son pain querre et rovant. 
2560 .1. mantelet afuble, son cief en va covrant; 

Une caaine d'or a entor le col grant 

Et si fu nee atot, 90 me va racontant ; 

Al pain vient, ele en ot .i. bel don avenant ; 

Un pot prist s'en ala al fontenel corant 
2565 U vostre .vi. oisel sont el vivier noant. 

Jo le sivi apr6s por veir son sanblant. 

Car j'euc a li parl^ an9ois le jor devant. 

Al fontenel seoit, la le trovai brisant 

Son pain en la fontaine, et li .vi. oisel blanc 
2570 Venoient entor li tot .vi. son pain mangant. 

En ses mains le prendoient, en son escorg devant, 

Ausi con les eiist norris priveemant. 

Jo m'asis la apr6s tot porpenseemant 

Por acointier a li, por veoir son talant. 
2575 L'uns des oisials me vint de Tele el front cinglant. 

Que tot li oel me furent d'angoisse estincelant ; 

Et li autre s'eslieve sor moi en I'air volant, 

Si me feri de Tele que il enmi le camp 

M'abati mon capel que j*euc el cief seant; 
2580 Et li autre s'eslievent par ausi fait talant. 

Jo sali sus tos li6s qu'en peuc venir fliiant; 

Jo cremi que aucuns esperis malfaisant 

I eiist li deables envoiet la batant ; 

Encor criem que n*i soient mis par encantement.** 
2585 " Senescals," dist li rois, *' mervelles vas contant ; 

Mes cisnes lai tos cois, ne les va quivriant : 

Mais a la mescinete me feras connissant 

Le matinet a Tore de Taumosne donant. 

Por 90U que de son pain ait aucun remanant, 
2590 Jo woel, quant tel verras, que tu Ten dones tant 

Que ele en puist doner auques a son talant 

As cisnes, s*ele vait demain al riu corant. 15* 

Por 90U vaurai savoir se me vas voir disant." 

Dist li senescals : " Sire, tot au vostre conmant 
2595 Vos me ver6s demain al doner esgardant ; 

Et tant vos di jo bien, por estre apercevant : 

La u vos me verr6s del doner arestant, 

Que jo metrai .iii. pains en son escor9 devant, 

G-*ert cele que jo di, celi al6s sivant.** 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 



71 



L 



2600 ** Bien as dit, senescal, et jo plus ne demant.** 

I jors vient, la nuis passe, rendemain est venus. 
D'une corte reube est rois Lotaires vestus ; 
Al^s est olr messe, et o lui de ses drus ; 
Aprfe messe si est del mostier descend us. 

2605 " Senescal," dist li rois, " que i6s tu devenus ? 

Ces povres gens t'atendent, en nen feras tu plus ?" 
" Sire,*' dist li vall^s, " se mes pains ert fendus 
¥x j'estoie en la place ques eiisce veiis, 
Ja avroient del pain, que ja n'i fauroit nus ; 

2610 Et s'atendoie ale .i. vallet qui'st la jus." 

" Vels tu que jo t'aie ? je sui fors et membrus." 

" Oje, sire, enon Deu, que bien soi6s venus, 

Car que plus i fer6s, tant i perder^s plus. 

** Gard6s dont," dist li rois, ** ne soit hui mais fendus 

2615 N'esquartel6s nus pains, tos entirs soit rendus. 
Tant ara la soie ame, ce quit, mellor salus 
Devant Deu et ses sains en paradis la sus, 
Por qui li pains sera don^s et espandus. 

T I senescals a fait pain aporter assez, 
2620 ^^^ Car li rois est venus del doner aprest^s ; 

II n'est del departir nient acostum^s : 

Por 90 que venus est, de tant est enmiudr^s 

Li dons, quant pains entirs est a cascun don6s. 

Neporquant je vos di, bien a .vii. ans passes 
2625 Qu'il conmence a doner, encor ne fu lassez. 

Tant a don6 li rois que avant est al6s ; 

Ausi com a une autre li est uns pains don^s. 

Et li senescals dist : " Damoisele, ten^s ; " 

Si Ten done encor .i. ; li rois s'est regard^s, . 
3630 Si s'est aperceiis et si s'est porpens^s 

Que ce est cele dont il queroit les vert6s. 

Or vausist il ja estre del doner escapes, 

Et cele vausist estre a I'eve vers les pres, 

Por veoir les oisials que tant a enam^s. 
2635 La est a tot .i. pot ses oires aprest6s, 

Por aporter de I'eve dont sa dame ait ass^s. 

Assise s'est au riu,.es les vos avoids, ly 

Tos les cisnes ensanble, qui li vont de tos les 

Por avoir de eel pain qui la ert aport^s. 



72 NAISSANCE DV CHEVALIER AU CVGNE. 

2640 Ele en fraint et si brise, si lor en done ass^s. 
Ez vos le roi quil siut de lone, tos aprest6s, 
Tos sens et sans conpaigne, d*une cape afubl6s, 
Ausi com se il fust serjans a cort mand^s. 
Vint la s'i s'est assis desore al destre les, 

2645 Et cele s*esmervelle, et dist : " Ci que querns ? 
Sire, frans damoisials, quels est or vos pens^s ? 
ler en i vint uns autres, mais il fu si men6s 
N4 venra mais, 90 quit, si ert li mois passes, 
Car li oisel le roi que vos ici ve6s 

2650 Le hurterent si fort des ci6s de lor eles, 
Que il en fu tos li6s quant il fu escapes : 
Ausi feront il vos, se auques i se6s/' 
" Bele suer," dist li rois, "av^s vos encant^s 
Les oisials qu*a vo main av6s fait si priv6s ? 

2655 Vos lor brisifes le pain, il le prendent de gres ; 
Or m'en don£s .i. poi, esprover m'i verr6s 
S'il vers moi esteroient ausi de volent6s. 
Don6s m'ent, bele suer, le foi que me dev6s ; 
Quant jo iere al aumosne, ass^s en averts/' 

2660 T I rois a pris le pain, les oisiaus en puira, 
'*-^ Bien les a gre^s tant que mie endura ; 
Nequedent en son cuer de 90 s'esmervella 
Que il sont si priv6 ; ainc mais nes asaia. 
Poise li que sovent n'i estoit venus la. 

2665 Li sens que il avoient si les aprevisa 

La u truevent amor que nul barat n'i a. 
Apr^ tot 90U li rois vers li se retorna : 
" Pucele," dist li rois, " qui vos envoia 9a ? 
De quel pais venistes et qui yos amena ? 

2670 Et qu'est 90U a vo col que voi roujoier la ?" 
La pucele Tesgarde et respondu li a : 
" Mes pere qui el bos a mes molt grant, pie9'a 
Nos .vii. enfans garda tant que .vii. ans passa. 
La nuit .i. pelerin qui la vint herbrega, 

2675 Vit mes freres ensanble et molt les esgarda, 
Et les caaines d*or molt longement visa 
Que cascuns ot al col, que al naistre aporta. 
Malade se fist molt, ainc la nuit ne manga, 
Esgarde que ma dame les .vi. enfans cou9a, 

2680 En .i. lit et d'un drap tos les acouveta. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AV CVGNE, 



73 



On me couga aillors ; garde ne s*en dona. 

El demain par matin quant .i. poi esclaira i6* 

Et mi frere dormirent, onques nus n'en vella, 

Coiement leva sus, les loiens d'or enbla. 
2685 Ne sai por quel engien» mais molt cos les colpa. 

Puis se mist a la voie, moi sanble qu'en ala ; 

Ala s*ent ne sai u, ne sai quel part torna. 

Mi frere s'esvellierent et jetent 9a et la 

Lor bras, que blance plume tos les acoveta. 
2690 II se leverent sus, li premiers s'en vola, 

Et tot li autre apr^s, nesun rem6s n'en a. 

Adonques vint mes pere, que del pain m'aporta 

Por els doner mangier, mais nul n'en i trova ; 

Puis les quist sus et jus assez et 9a et la. 
2695 • Fille, u sont li enfant ?' mes pere demanda ; 

Et jo li respondi que cascuns enpluma 

Trestos de blances plumes et puis si s'en vola. 

Quant cascuns fu la fors, ne sai u il ala, 

Et bien .i. an apr6s, petit plus demora, 
2700 Si me prist par le main, et del pain me querka ; 

A .i. quar6 sentier me mist s'i me laissa. 

Tant fis puis que jo vine a eel bel castel la, 

S'ai vescu de I'aumosne le roi con me dona." 

*' Pucele," dist li rois, " el col qui vos loia 
2705 La caaine de Tor que rogoier voi la ? " 

** Del ventre la portai u Nature I'ovra 

Et Damedex avant, qui tot puet et pora ; 

^ou me dist que c'ert voirs cil qui ci m'envoia." 

'*pUCELE," dist li rois, " mervelle m'as cont^ ; 
2710 ^ Poroit 90 estre voirs ? dis me tu verity ?" 

*• on, voir/* respont cele, **ensi m'est acont6." 

" Pucele," dist li rois, '* ven6s a seiirt^ 

A Taumosne le roi ; volentiers et de gre 

En averois vos tant qu'il seront rasas^, 
2715 Li cisne del vivier, ja n'en aicz durt6 ; 

Et vos meisme avoec jusc'al jor aprest^." 

** Sire, Dex le vos mire, li rois de majest6, 

Et le roi autresi qui par sa grant bont6 

A establi I'aumosne de son droit iret6, 
2720 Por Tame sa moillier, dont il a salvet6 



74 IfAISSANCE t>U CHEVALIER AU CYGt^E, 



R' 



Mete I'arme en son ciel, en paradis regn6. 

OIS Lotaires s'en part et si va molt pensant 
De 90U que la pucele li ala gehissant, 

Qu'en la maison Termite estoient .vii. enfant, 
2725 Etcascuns ot el col caaine d*or luisant 

Que del ventre aporterent la lor mere al naisant, 

Et les .vi. en perdirent par laron souduiant. 16^ 

" Quels sisnes puet 90 estre ? molt m*en vois ^etvellant ; 

Aucun sisne roial va li ors demostrant 
3730 Mainte fois ai eii molt mon cuer mervellant 

Des dis que j*oi dire Eliox le sa9ant, 

Que la premiere nuit en nostre lit gisant 

Que me deliteroie avoec li camelmant, 

De nostre engenrement istroient .vii. enfant 
2755 Dont cascuns aroit sisne d*or a son col pendant ; 

Et tot d'une litiere seroient li enfant 

Et lignie en iroit desci en Oriant. 

De tot icest afaire ne voi ne tant ne quant, 

Et ma mere me dist et si me fist savant 
2740 Que ele avoit eii jo ne sai quel serpant 

Qui Tot envenimee, laisa le mort gisant ; 

Li serpens s'en ala lasus en I'air volant. 

U ma mere u ma feme, li quels que soit, me mant ; 

J*en sarai la vert6, quQ qu'ele voist targant" 
2745 Tot issi com il ert, ardans de maltalant, 

Est months el palais, n'en dist n'en fait sanblant 

Que il soit irascus de rien ne tant ne quant. 

Puis entre en une canbre s*i a veil pendant 

Une espee dont sont li cotel bien tren9ant. 
2750 II Tea porte avoec lui sos son mantel covrant, 

Venus est a sa mere, si le trova scant 

En sa canbre en .i. lit tote sole cou9ant. 

Ele le voit venir si li dist en riant : 

" Bels fils, dont ven6s vos, et qu'al6s vos querant ?*' 
2755 " Mere," 90 dist li rois, " molt ai le cuer dolant, 

Quant de ma ciere amie me va resovenant 

Que j'ai sans nul confort perdu sifaitement ; 

Ne jo ne puis savoir s'ele porta enfant 

(Le ventre vi jo gros, si le vi soslevant), 
2760 Ne de sa moft ne sai com li fu convenant. 

Dites m'ent la vert6, si com jel vos conmant, 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIMk AV CYGNB. 



75 



Car jo le voel savoir, ne m'en cel& niant*' 

'* Bels ills/' 90 dist la mere, " el porta 4. serpant 

Qui toute Tentos^a d'un envenimement. 

2765 Morir estut la bele dont ai le cuer pesant" 

" Non, mere/* dist li rois, " vos dir6s autrement ; 
Molt m'av6s or men£ par lone fabloiement, 
Mais par le foi que doi a Damedeu le grant 
Le cief vos couperai de m'espee tren^ant 

2770 (Si Ta sacie fors.forbie et flanboiant), 

S'autre cose ne dites ; ja n'en ar^ garaut" 

La dame est esfreee, si jeta .1. cri grant : 16^ 

" Bels fiux, jo te portai et norri alaitant. 

Garde toi que deables ne te voist engignant ; 

2775 Honerer dois ta mere, ce troeve Ten lisant ; 
S'autres li faisoit cose qui li alast nuisant, 
Se li devroies tu aidier tot erranmant** 
" Mere," ce dist li rois, "la vert6 vos demant, 
De la mort Elioxe me soi^s voir disant; 

2780 Se nel dites molt tost, ja sar6s com tren^ant 
Sont li cotel de fer que tieng ci en presant:'* 
Dont aesme son coup por li bouter avartt 

" ID ELS fiux," 90 dist la mere, " vels tu me vergonder, 
Qui ta mere vels ci ne sader ne bouter ? 
2785 Mon peci6 te dirai, sel me dois pardoner.*' 

" Dites, mere, del tot vos voel quite clamer. 

Par si que ne doies ne mentir ne fauser; 

La mengoigne por^s durement conperer, 

Et se vos dites voir, ce vos puet delivrer, 
2790 Ne ja en nule rien ne m'or6s reprover," 

" Fiux, entent, puis que jo m'os si asseiiro-. 

Tu oras ma confiese, por Deu or del celery 

Te feme ot .vii. enfans, ce me vinrent conter 

Les dames qui la furent ; quant el dut delivrer 
2795 On lais^a les enfans a la terre witrer, 

S'entendi on a li quant el dut ddivra-. 

L'endemain quant 01 des .vii. enfans parler, 

Ses rovai coiement en la forest porter 

U les truist salvegine por els tos devourer. 
2800 La les envoiai tos, plus ne vos sai conter. 

Car nes osoie mie ici pres essorber ; 

Et de 90U vos voel jo, bels fils, pardon rover." 



76 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

" Mere, encor vos voel jo autre rien demander : 

" AT ERE," ce dist li rois, '* jo vos ai pardon^, 
2805 ^^^ Mais encor i remaint assez de la vert6, 

Que tot li .vii. enfant furent encaain^ 

Al naistre entor lor col de fin or esmer^ : 

Ces caaines demant, si en faites mon gre." 

" Bels fils," 50 dist la mere, " por sainte carit6, 
2810 Jo nes vi ne nes tine, ainques n'i fu gard6 

De moi ne de ma part, voir t'en ai dit, par De.'* 

Et li rois li respont : " U ja ert conper^, 

U ja me les rendr^s !" — " Fiux, or m*est ramenbr6 

Que tu envoias querre Tatrean par ton regn6 
2815 A tes provos ta rente, que il, a jor nom6, 

Le t'eiiscent trestot devant toi aport^ ; 

Si trova mes serjans par qui 90 fu mand6 16^ 

.VII. enfans en Tostel u on Tot ostel6, 

S'avoient .vii. caaines entor lor col no€, 
2820 D'un sanblant, d*un afaire, et tot .vii. d'un a6 ; 

En un vaissel mangoient 90U c'on lor ot don6. 

Quant il vint, sel me dist 90U qu*il avoit trov6, 

Jo li priai, si cier qu'il avoit m'amist^, 

K'il ne finast ja mais sel m'eust aport6 
2825 Trestot Tor des caaines que il avoit mir6. 

II s'en rala ariere, tant a quis et pen6 

Que 90U que li rovai m*a porquis et don^ : 

.VI. en euc des loiens, .i. en ai jo ost6. 

Menbre vos que vos vi si fort maltalent^, 
2830 Quant pres vostre neveu, par male volent6, 

Jetastes vo nef d'or a .i. piler moll6 

Par issi grant air qu'ele ot le pi6 quass6 ? 

De Tor qui devant fu et d'autre c*ai sevr6 

Et d'un des .vi. loiens ai le pi6 restore. 
2835 Or en te mainent .v., la sont tot aprest6, 

Et vos les ar^s ja volentiers et de gre, 

Par si que maltalent m*ai6s tot pardon^.'* 

La dame lieve sus, si li a aport6 ; 

Et il les a reciut, ses a molt regards 
2840 Et en sa cambre mis et repus et salv6. 

R set auques li rois de 90U qu*il a enquis, 
Car sa mere meisme Ten a ass^s apris : 
S*une autre eiist 90U fait, ses cors en fust bonis, 



o 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 77 

Mais por 90U qu*est sa mere, ne Ten sera ja pis. 
2845 De 90U que il a dit molt en remaint pensis ; 

Dusc'al demain atent, que jors fu esclarcis, 

Et tant que Taumosne est, et li pains, departis, 

Un mantel cort affuble, s'est a la voie mis ; 

Ses caaines en porte, et si a .ii. pains pris 
2850 Por doner as oisiaus qui des gens sont eskis. 

II va si contr'atent la pucele au cler vis, 

Par li les quide plus avoir amanevis ; 

Mais ne sens ne memoire n*est mie en els faillis, 

Ains ont bien retenu le sens d*ome et apris 
2855 Que c*est lor suer que la avoit venu tans dis. 

Nature et Destinee i ont lor contredis ; 

Nature velt que hom si soit de sens garnis, 

Et Destinee dist le mere qu*ele i a mis, 

Et dist que de son droit sera a li sougis ; ' 

2860 Ne velt por nule rien soit faus6 ne faillis. 

Nature dist partot doit bien estre hom servis ; 

S*en aporta I'ensegne dont fu parl6, col pris. 17* 

A 90U s'embat Fortune, si escoute ces dis ; 

Dist que .ii. adversaires fera molt tost amis. 
2865 Ele amaine celui qui de Tor ert baillis 

Que lor ot Destinee tot entor le col mis. 

La pucele vient la, si siet as fontenis ; 

Li oisel s'aper9oivent si sont venus tot sis. 

Cele froisse le pain, si fu bien recoillis 
2870 'Des oisiaus, car cascuns fu ja de pain norris. 

Es vos le roi qui vient, tot soef s'est assis 

Les la pucele a destre, et dist li, 90 m^est vis : 

" Damoisele,'* fait il, *41 m'est molt bien avis, 

Que les oisiaus av6s en mainbumie mis, 
2875 De vostre pain avront, quels que soit, blans u bis." 

" Sire,'* dist la pucele, et si leva le vis, 

** Cascuns va volentiers la u il a apris, 

Et la melsmement u ses pains li est quis. 

Puis la premiere fois n'i fu fais contredis, 
2880 Car jo ai cascun jor de mon pain que j*ai quis 

A ces oisiaus doner brisi6s es fontenis, 

Et cascuns a est6 del prendre volentis." 

"pUCELE," dist li rois, '* et sc jo lor puiroie, 
^ Venoient il a moi ? volentiers lor donroie ; 



78 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

2885 Se vos le me Ioi6s, ja droit I'asaieroie, 

Un pain que jo tieng ci devant els froieroie. 
A tant trait fors le pain et devant els le froie. 
Quant il virent le pain, cascuns apr6s coloie, 
Vienent et si le prendent, nus d'els ne s*en efTroie. 

2890 Entrues qu'il gardent jus il met main a coroie, 
Sace une des caaines et .i. des oisiaus loie ; 
Adont le sace a lui, si le dre et avoie • 
Tant que fors des fontaines Ta mis a droite voie. 
Gl ne s'eslonge mie ne ne fuit ne desroie. 

2895 ^^ s'esqeut, et sa plume qui plus que nois blan9oie 
Est devenus blans dras, que onques n'i ot roie, 
Dont il remaint vestus ; et puis, que vos diroie ? 
II est devenus hom et li rois s'en effroie ; 
Vers sa seror regarde, dont li cuers li tenroie, 

2900 Et dist : " Damoisials sire, certes encor vaitroie 
Que fesissi6s ausi celui qui la coloie.*' 
Li rois li jete el col le loien si le loie, 
Sel sace fors de Teve, et cil point ne desroie, 
Ains s'en vient volentiers et s'en a molt grant joie ; 

2905 Et Nature li cange erranment sa monoie : 

D'iin oisel fait .i. home, et le roi point n'anoie 17* 

Sa plume et vesteiire qui cuevre et aombroie 
Sa car, qui del grant halle et de I'aige noir^oie. 

T I rois se pot forment de tel rien mervellier, 
2910 -*-* Quant li oisel se laisce en tant aprivoier 
Con li puet la caaine en tor le col lacier, 
Et on le maine a terre sans tirer et sacier, 
Et Natiu'e li vaut sifaitement aidier 
Qu'il reprent forme d'ome ; en lui a bon ovrier, 
2915 Ki par miracle fait la cose ensi cangier. 

Li rois a pris la tierce caaine de I'or mier, 
Li tiers oisiaus se laise molt bien aplanoier, 
Et il li gete el col sans plus de Tatargier ; 
Ausi avint cestui com il fust au premier. 
2920 Que vos tenroie jo ici par (abloier ? 
.IL caaines avoit, celes velt enploier, 
Et cil li vinrent pres por eus aparellier. 
Li doi en vinrent fors, vont s'ent a conpaignier 
As trois qui la estoient ; puis prendent a plaidier, 



o 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE, 79 

2925 Et dient c*ont est€ longes peneancier; 

Dex lor a fait merci, sel doivent graciier. 

Encor en remaint uns noant par le rivier 

Qui volentiers venist ester al camp plenier. 

II n'est qui li ajut, ne li a que puirier 
2930 Li rois ; ce poise lui, ci a grant destorbier, 

Quant li .v. en iront par terre esbanoier 

Et il remanra sens en Taigue del vivier. 

|R sont tot .V. ensanble si sont entr'els parlant, 
L'uns en parla premiers qui se tint a sa9ant: 

2935 " Longes avons est6, bels frere, peneant, 
Et Damedex nos a faite merci si grant 
Par le main cest preudome que ve6s d seant ; 
Mercions Damedeu, le pere tot puissant 
Et eel preudome la, molt me sanble vaillant ; 

2940 Mais nos ne lairons mie apr^ nos remanant 
No seror, ains li ermes ci et aillors aidant. 
Avoec nos le menrons aventure querant/ 
Bien sai que c*est no suer et bien est aparant, 
Bone ensegne en a ele, veable et connis9ant^ 

2945 Ensanble nos norri Termite al poil ferrant 
No frere que laisons en I'eve remanant, 
Nos ne li poons nient de rien estre aidant." 
£s vos a ces paroles vint li rois maintenant : 
"Que c'est, segnor ?*' dist H, ^'qu'al6s vos dementant? 

2950 Encore i a tel cose dont ne sav6s niant 

Entre vos sav^ bien et estes connissant I'j^ 

Ke vos fustes .vi. frere, norri en .i. herbant ; 
S'av^s une seror, pucele et avenant : 
En est ele 90U la que vos ve6s seant?" 

2955 *' Oil," respondent il, *Vpar Deu omnipotant.*' 

** Enfent," 90 dist li rois, "jo dirai mon sanblant : 
An9ois que jo eiisce espouse loiaument 
Elioxe la bele, a qui Deus soit garant, 
Af e devina la bele qu'estroient .vii. en£uit 

2960 De li, et lor linages iroit en Oriant. 

Al naistre aroit cascuns .i. loien d'or luisant 
Entor le col laciet, c*est une ensegne grant 
Li enfant iurent n6, ele remest morant, 
Et Dex en mete I'arme en Tort S. Abrahant 



8o NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

2965 5 'a est6 une cose dont j'ai est6 dolant : 

Port^ furent el bos, ne sai u ; forvoiant 

Ont grant termine est6, .vii. an furent paeant, 

C*uns seijans lor embla a cisoire tren9ant 

Lor ensegnes qu'il orent entor le col pendant ; 
2970 A .vi. en aporta ma mere a sauf faisant ; 

Jel seuc, ses demandai, des .v. me fist creant, 

La siste ot aloee a une nef d'or grant ; 

Vos .V. en av6s vos, n*en a plus aparant. 

Por 90U wel jo prover, vos estes 'mi enfant, 
2975 Vos manr^s avoec moi, des rices fi^s tenant. 

Car jo tieng cest roiame, si j*ai en mon conmant 

.VIL cit6s et .1. castels segnerilmant ; 

Si ser6s chevalier et mi ami aidant, 

Et jou marierai ma fille hautement, 
2980 Soit a roi u a prince u due u amirant ; 

Si arai des nevels, s'ierent mi bien aidant. 

Cel oisel que la voi en eel rivier noant 

Ferai jo bien garder ; dusqu'a .xxx. serjant 

Le garderont la nuit et le jor'autretant.** 

T I rois prent le vallet qui premerains parla, 

-*-^ En la face le baise, et puis si I'acola, 

Et lui et tos les autres tos uns a uns baisa ; 

Porvint a la pucele et conjoie I'a. 

" Fille," dist la pucele, " benois soit qui vos a 
2990 Nourie jusqu'a hui ; 90 qu*il ot vos dona ; j 

II vos norri por Deu,** (adont li rois plora), 

" Mais desore en avant saver^s que pora 

Faire qui carnelment tos .vii. vos engenra. 

Dex ait merci de li qui es flans vos porta ; 
2995 ^1^ songa .i. songe qui voir senefia, 

Qu'ele avoit .vii. pumetes qiie eh son lit mu9a; 17' 

Les .vi, en embla on et les keues coupa, 

Les pumes rua puer et l^s keues salva ; 

Vos caines sont les keues que on si bien garda, 
3000 Mais de vostre seror li lere forvoia : 

Repuse fu, espoir, u icil Toublia. 

Asse2 conois celui qui si les vos coupa 

Et qui couper les fist, mais vos nel sar6s ja. 

Ven^s ent avoec moi, carassez vos donra 
3005 Damedex qui nos tos a s'ymage forma. 



2985 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 8i 



L' 



I rois s'en va ariere a gente conpaignie, 
Et li cisnes de I'aigue forment apr6s colie. 

Li rois vient el palais u sa conpaigne guie ; 

Li chevalier Tesgardent et tote sa maisnie. 
3010 Plantols parole a lui, car il de lui se fie: 

" Sire oncles, qui est ore cele bacelerie ? 

Bien sanblent trestot frere, qui c'autre cose en die.** 

" Par Deu," 90 dist li rois, " il sont de ma lignie, 

Si lor port6s honor, si fer6s cortoisie ; 
3015 Car il aront o moi 9aiens tel segnorie 

Com ses eiist port6s Elioxe m'amie, 

Dont Tarme ait Damedex qui tot bien sainteiie. 

Ceste puciele ci, ele sera m*amie, 

Ele ara mon consel et ma force et m*aie. 
3020 Je le marierai a prince de baillie, 

S*en arai des parens, s*enforcera m*aie. 

Dont s'en entre en la canbre de marbre labastrie ; 

La a trov6 sa mere seant, si s'esbanie 

A une soie niece de biaut^ raplenie. 
3025 "Dame,** ce dist li rois, "en cure et en baillie 

Vos bail ceste pucele, que jo tieng a amie, 

Et jo woel qu*ele soit ausi de vos cierie.** 

I vallet sont a cort a molt grant segnorage, 
Molt i a bels vall6s, tot sanblent d*un eage ; 

3030 II porsivent le roi quel part qu'il onques aille, 
II se pruevent molt bien cascuns en vaselage. 
S*il parolent a gent, bien sanblent estre sage, 
Et s'il vont bohordant, il ne sont pas ombrage 
De ferir en quintaine ne de porter lor targe; 

3035 Et se il esquermiscent por lor esbanoiage, 
For bien courir d*escu n'aront il ja damage, 
Ne por autrui grever ne feront il outrage; 
De doner 90 qu'il tienent, de 90 sont il molt large, 
Par tot le pais va lor cris et lor bamage. 

3040 La vienent damoisel qui sont de grant parage, 

II les retienent tos par lor demiselage, 18' 

Quan c'onques en i vient et par terre et par nage ; 
Et si sont avoec eus tot le tans en estage, 
Et passent le guain et le tans ivernage, 

3045 Desci qu'il sont venu a eel tans quaresmage 



L' 



82 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

K'erbe point par ces pres et florisent boscage 
Por la doufor qui vient del printans al rivage. 
Rois Lotaires qui velt faire grant vaselage 
Cascun a conmand6 selonc le sien eage 

3050 Qu*il soit esvertu6s et prenge bon corage; 
II lor donra tos armes le semaine pasquage 
Et fera chevaliers por essaucier barnage, 
Ses tenra a sa cort tot .i. an de maisnage 
Et donra fer et clau et avaine et fourage, 

3055 Dras et haubers et elmes, qu'il ne soient ombrage 
Quant tans ert qu'il devront mener lor vaselage. 

OEMEDI devant pasques a li rois conmand^ 
^^ Que li .V. vallet aient lor conpaignons mand6 ; 
Si comme por prendre armes il lor a aprest6. 

3060 Cascuns en est molt li6s, grant joie en ont men6 ; 
La roine fait metre .xxx. cuves el pre 
Et si serjant i sont qui I'aigue ont aport6. 
Desor cascune cuve avoit tendu .i. tre 
Por 90U que li bains fust a cascun plus priv6. 

3065 Et qui onques s'i baigne la roine a don6 

Cascun cemise et braies qui sont a or broud6, 
Et fremail a son col de fin or noiel6 ; 
Li braiel sont de soie enlaciet et jet6, 
Cascun coroie blance, pendant sorargent6 

3070 • Et aumosniere ausi de paile et de cend6 ; 
Et en cascune avoit .vi. besans d'or letr^ 
Dont il feront aumosne, et Dex le prenge en gre ; 
Et avoec tot i^ou n'i sont pas oubli6 
Les coifes et les gans; a tant si a cess6. 

3075 T ^ dame a fait ses dons, li vallet sont joiant, 
^^ De Deu et de ses sains le vont tot merciant. 
A tant es vos le roi, o lui maint bel serjant 
Ki aportent ces dras tant a lor cols pendant; 
Miux valoient li drap de S. Quentin le grant. 

3080 II i a maint samit, maint paile escarimant 

Et maint drap de halape, tissu a or luisant, 
Baudequins, siglatons, et maint drap aufriquant, 
Brunetes, escarlates, et rice vert de Gant; 
Et les penes sont vaires et li sable sont grant, 

3085 Les ataces de soie valurent maint bezant 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 83 

Tant a don6 li rois que tot sont revestant, 18^ 

Bien i sont revestu damoisel dusqu'a cent. 

Or vienent li lormier esperons aportant; 

Li rois en prent .v. pairc, eels orent si enfant 
3090 Li enfant ont les autres, cascuns en done avant. 

Cascuns ot .xx. vall6s a son non atendant 

Que li rois revest tos, et il sont molt vaillant 

Dont amainent cevals, li lorain vont sonant; 

II n'i a chevalier n*ait palefroi amblant. 
3095 Apr^s done a cascun ceval norois corant^ 

Et .ij. roncis cascun, et .i. soumier portant 

Qui portera le fer qu'il donra maintenant. 

II a don6 .v. brans de le forge galant; 

Li doi furent jadis le roi Octeviant, 
3100 La les orent pic9'a aport6s Troiant, 

Quant Miles espousa Florence le vaillant; 

Se li dona Florence qui bien le vit aidant 

Et encontre Garfile fierement conbatant; 

Et Miles dona Tautre a .i. sien connis9ant. 
3105 Puis furent il embl6 par Gautier le truant, 

Et cil en est fuis de la fort paisant, 

S'en est venus au pere le roi Lotaire errant; 

A celui le dona, et il en fist presant. 

Li rois les esgarda, bien les a a talant, 
31 10 S a Gautier done fief et fait rice et manant. 

Les autres trois avoit en son tresor gisant ; 

II ot conquis .i. roi en Aufiique le grant 

Quant ala outre mer le sepucre querant, 

Que treii demandoit as pelerins errant. 
31 15 II li coupa la teste, onques nen ot garant, 

Et Tespee aporta et .i. elme luisant. 

Illuec apr6s conquist Caucase Tamirant 

Dont I'espee aporta et Tauberc jaserant. 

Et Tautre espee fu trovee el flun Jordant, 
3120 Ainc ne pot estre blance, tant I'alast forbisant. 

Ces .v. espees a li rois cascun enfant 

^ainte au senestre les u bien seent li brant. 

Puis lor done colees dont tot sont fgrmoiant, 

C'onques mais de perece n'ait en els tant ne quant. 
3125 Ausi font il as autres qu'a els sont atendant, 

Dont cascuns en a .xx. qui tot sont bien aidant. 



84 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

Dont les maine li rois en son ostel puiant; 
La sont tot el prad desos I'arbre ombroiant 
La atraient le roi .v. tonials .xx. serjant, 

3130 Qui tot estoient plain de bon fel flanboiant; 

Li rois en eslist .v. qui le maille ont plaisant, i8< 

Cels dona ses .v. fius el non Jhesu le grant, 
Et cauces ploieices, coifes qui ont pendant: 
Turcoises les apelent cele gent venisant. 

3135 Puis lor dona .v. elmes, qui tant sont flanboiant 
Tos li pres en flanboie contre solel luisant; 
Li candelabre en sont d*or fin arrabiant, 
En cascun des nasials ot une gemme grant 
Or ont li .v. lor armes, or donront il avant 

3140 Tant que cascuns ara son fer par avenant; 
.C. haubers ont don6s .c. vall6s .v. enfant, 
Et toute rarmeiire de fer apartenant 
' A chevalier qui doit d'armes avoir garant 
On lor aporte escus de painture aparant 

3145 Et tains et vermelli^s, et sont bien connissant. 
Li vint ont .xx. escus qui tot sont a argant, 
Mais c'un lioncel noir avoit paint en .i. cant; 
^ou sont les connis^ances le vallet al noir brant 
Et li autre .xx. ont les aigles d'or 4uisant, 

3150 Dont les canpaignes sont d'azur estincelant. 
Li autre avoient paint pucele carolant, 
Et la canpaigne estoit de sinople luisant 
Li autre orent pisons de longes en pendant, 
Ki poi prisent Tescu; et deriere et devant 

3155 A une liste vert entor lui a9aignant 

Li autre orent .i. cisne bien fait et connis9ant, 
La canpaigne fu d'or entor le cisne blanc 
Et si ot une liste de vigne verdoiant. 
Issi ont .V, devises li .v. frere aparant, 

3160 Escus et xronnissances, et trestot lor sivant 
La roine lor done par sa noblece grant 
.V. ensegnes batues a or arrabiant, 
Dont les langes batirent a la sele devant 
Quant li .v. chevalier s*en vont es pres poignant 

3165 On lor aporte lances de sap soef planant. 
II montent es cevals, escus as cols pendant, 
Bohorder Tuns vers Tautre vont ces lances brisant; 



Q 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 85 

Les esclices des lances vont contremont volant, 
Petit i a d'escus u il n*ait maint trou grant 
3170 Tant a dur6 la feste que il se vont lasant, 

Tot s'en revont ensanble li chevalier vaillant. 

jUANT furent descendu, al mostier vont orer, 
Devant Timage Deu vont lor coupes clamer ; 
Uns capelains vint la por els vespres canter, 

3175 Volentiers les oirent car il cantent molt cler. 

Apr6s vespres alerent .i. petitet souper, 18** 

Mais Iu6s sont revenu al mostier S. Wimer; 
La vaurent toute nuit et vellier et ester, 
En estant ierent la desci qu'a Tajomer; 

3180 Et quant la nuis se prist .i. poi a esconser 

Cascuns fait devant lui .i. grant cierge alumer. 
Le vie S. Morise lor conta uns jogler. 
Qui uns emperere ot conmand6 a guier 
Une ost de chevaliers ses anemis grever. 

3185 Le nonbre vos sai bien et dire et deviser: 
C*ert une legions en coi on doit nonbrer 
.VL milliers et .vi.c.lxvi., tous ber; 
Tant en ot li.preudom desos lui a garden 
Icil qui mal velt faire plus ne velt demorer, 

3190 Traist a Tempereor, sel prist a encuser 

Qu*il ierent crestiien, tant i savoit blasmer. 
L'emperere les a trestos fais decoler, 
Et les cors fait trestos ens el Rosne ruer; 
Tant i jetent de cors qu*il Testuet soronder, 

3195 Par pres et par canpaignes et par viles floter. 
Cil furent tot martir por Damedeu amer, 
Et Dex lor puet molt bien el ciel gueredoner. 
Ceste cannons dura desci qu*a Tajomer, 
Et il furent molt prest d'oir et escouter; 

3:^00 Au jor s'en sont al6 .i. petit reposer. 

tierce se leva li rois par son dangier, 
Issus est de sa cambre, vint el palais plenier; 
La estoient venu si .v. fil tot premier, 
Bien ierent en lor siute pres de .c. chevalier. 
3205 Lu^s qu*il virent le roi, ses veissi^s drecier! 
Li rois de plaine voie s'adreya al mostier; 
La vinrent avoec lui cil baceler legier. 
La fist on revestir le bon ab€ Renier; 



A 



86 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

El non del S. Espir, qui les puist consellier, 

3210 A conmenci6 la messe et le devin mestier. 
^ou c'on offri TaW valut maint bon denier, 
Onques n'i ot celui n*ofrist bezant d*or mier. 
Que la mere le roi lor ot don6 tres ier. 
Apr6s messe s*en vont sus el palais plenier; 

3215 .On a cornee Teve, assis sont au mangier. 

Les mes ne les savors ne vos puis acointier, 
Car il en i ot tant qui molt font a prisier. 
Li rois qui tant en fist, si bien aparellier — 
For^s li rendent bestes por sa cort essaucier, 

3220 Li airs li rent oisials c*on manga par dangler, 

Si li rendent poisons li aigue et li vivier. ly 

Or f>o6s bien savoir, maint mes i ot plenier 

Et boires autresi, bien le puis fiancier; 

Bon vin, bones puisons lor orent grant mestier, 

3225 II en i ot ass4s, ce vos voel acointier. 

Li jogleor i font grant noise et grant tenpier; 
L*uns cante de Martin et Tautres d*01ivier, 
Li autres de Guion et li autre d'Ogier. 
De la color n'estuet des estrumens plaidier, 

3230 Tot sans nule can9on si puet on delitier. 

On ne demoure plus, errant apr6s mangier 
Monterent es cevals f>or la feste avancier; 
Les escus ont as cols, es mains lances d 'osier. 
La veist on ensegnes a eel vent balloier, 

3235 De totes pars s*amostrent et vienent chevalier. 
Cel al noir lioncel, es le vos tot premier. 
Plains estoit de deduit por gens esbanoier; 
.XX. conpaignon le sivent ; trambler et formoier 
Font la terre sous eux, si font il grant tenpier. 

3240 Li autres as puceles ne se vaut atargier, 

Cil ne velt demorer plus longement arrier ; 
II et si conpaignon ne vaurent detriier, 
Sor ces escus novials font lances pe^oier. 
Cil as poissons revint qui s'i vaura aidier, 

3245 Sel veissi6s venir, lui vintisme, coitier! 

Cil i vient si bruiant que il fait tos ploier 
Les rens de chevaliers u il se velt fichier; 
II n'espargne nului de son escu percier 
Et de faire voler, a terre trebucier. 

3250 Or vient cil as aigliaus. nes pot on mesprisier, 



L' 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 87 

Bien se pueent mostrer comme bon chevalier; 

Que que cil as poisons facent por eux proisier, 

Cist maintienent molt mius le camp por festoier. 

II n'ont cure de querre ombre por ombroier, 
3255 Ains se fierent es autres, les rens font claroier. 

II li convint fuir u cair del destrier 

Qui il vont consivant, u Tarfon pefoier. 

Cil au cisne revient bruiant com aversier, 

Ausi com li ostoirs es an6s de rivier 
3260 Quant il velt prendre proie et es oisials plongier ; 

Que que li autre facent, fcist font tot esmaier 

Cels qui voient venir a lor estor cargier. 

Cist voelent pris avoir de tot le tornoier 

Et il Teiiscent tost, quant la vint rois Lotier 
3265 Ki lor a conmand6 de tot en tot laisier: 

Entrues que gius est bels le doit on acoisier. 

I rois jura son cief, mar i sera brisie 
Hui mais a bohorder ne lance ne demie; 
Par un gar^on fu la la parole noncie. 

3270 II ciesent et descendent sor Terbe qui verdie, 
Et li pluisor cevalcent vers lor herbregerie. 
Jogleor cantent sons et mainent lie vie ; 
Rices ostels tenoient tot li fil Eloxie, 
Car or primes conmence venir lor segnorie, 

3275 Li los et la proece et la grans cortoisie. 
La novele est par tout et alee et oie. 
Que rois Lotaires tient si grant cevalerie, 
Ne redoute voisin qui tant ait felonie, 
Que molt tost nel menace a molt poi d'aatie. 

3280 Li renons est si grans de bien, de boine vie, 
La novele est alee desci qu'en Aumarie, 
Tres les pors de Wisant, desci qu'en Romenie, 
Et par toute Engleterre u a grant segnorie, 
Et par toutes les terres leu on aore et prie 

3285 Le glorious Segnor, le fil sainte Marie, 

Que par eux u est toute proece resbaudie 
Et larghece autresi qui estoit endormie, 
II soustienent tos eels qui lor ruevent aie, 
Qui od els porsivir voelent cevalerie. 

3290 Tot eel est6 dura la feste plentoie 

Et cascun jor croissoit de chevaliers maisnie. 



88 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE. 

Maintes foies av6s mainte novele oie 
De la cort roi Artu et de sa baronie; 
De Gavain son neveu et de sa conpaignie, 

3295 Et des autres barons dont la fable est bastie. 
Ce fu fable d*Artu u 90 fu faerie, 
Mais ce fu verit6s, nel mescre6s vos mie, 
De ces .v. chevaliers et de lor conpaignie, 
De Lotaire lor pere qui tant ot segnorie. 

3300 Li livre le nos content qui sont d'anciserie, 
Qu*a Nimaie est Testoire en une glise antie 
Qui fu fondee el non cele sainte Marie 
Ki tel home porta que celui qui tot crie 
Et tot fist de nient, par sa grant segnorie. 

3305 Rois Lotaires s*esforce, en son cuer pas n'oblie 
D*Elioxe la bele la haute prophesie 
Ki dist que ses linages iroit vers paienie, 
Illueques regneroit par molt grant segnorie 
Et li pooirs de Deu li seroit en ale. 

3310 Mais il ne set del quel isteroit la lignie 

Ki si s*espanderoit en Oriant partie, 19^ 

Car tot .V. sont molt preu et He grant segnorie. 

N jor ert rois Lotaires al6s a sa capele, 
A orisons se mist por proier la pucele, 

3315 La gloriose Dame qui tant est piue et bele, 
Qu'ele son fil proiast de fin cuer, la pucele, 
Que il li envoiast a savoir la novele 
Au quel de ses enfans quieroit cele meriele, 
Ki iroit outre mer sor le gent qui favele. 

3320 Molt en a Deu proiet et la Virgene pucele. 
Entrues qu*il li prioit et de bon cuer I'apele, 
Li vint une avisons qui molt fu bone et bele, 
C'uns angeles li aporte et li dist la novele 
Que c*esteroit icil, seiist le sans favele, 

3325 Qui li cisnes menroit traiant en sa nacele, 
Et si avra el col d'or fin la caainele. 

,R trespasse d'est6 li saisons et li tans 
Et d'iver autresi, est tos passez li ans; 
Al tor de Tan revient et avriels et prinstans 
3330 Et li tans de Pascor, qui les gens fait joians ; 
Nes icil qui sont tristre font de joie sanblans. 
Li .V. fil roi Lotaire, des autres ne sai quans. 



u 



o 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 89 

Sont assambl6 ensanble, s*ont fait uns parlemans 
Que cascuns ira querre, sans conpaigne de gans, 

3335 Aventure qui soil a cascun convenans. 

Dist cil al noir lion: "G'irai es desrubans 
De la noire montaigne, i verai ne sai quans 
Et tygres et lupars, dont Deus me soit garans. 
A .V. ans revenrai, se jo remaing vivans 

3340 Et prisons ne me tient, a mon pere joians." 
Dist li vall6s a Taigle: "G*irai aventurer 
Es for6s u on seut les cerubins colper, 
Et cedres et cipr^s en seut on amener; 
La troverai, tostans que ce ne puet fauser, 

3345 Tele aventure u jou me porai esprover; 

Et Dex par son plaisir, qui tot puet govemer, 
Me laist par sa piti6 en td liu asener 
Dont jo puise le los et conquest raporter. 
A ,vii. ans, se Deu plaist» m*en vaurai retrover, 

3350 Se prisons ne me tient dont jo puise escaper, 
U mors ne me soprent que ne puise eskiver/* 
Et dist cil as puceles: "Jo ai 01 parler, 
La terre d'Aminois molt I'ai 01 loer; 
La roine est molt preus, bien set armes porter, 

3355 Courir de son escu et d*espee capler; 

Ausi font ses puceles, bien Tai 01 conter: i^i 

Jes voel aler conquerre, por .x. ans demorer, 
Dusque j'aie est6 la u jes puise trover ; 
La roine amerai qui tant fait a amer.** 

3360 C^^ ^^^^ ^*"^ ^ poissons : "Jo voel aler par mer, 
Car m*ensegne le doit, jo nel voel remuer. 
As aimans trairai, tant me vaurai grever, 
Ja 90U ne remanra por .vii. ans demorer ; 
Savoir voel quel fin fait qui ne puet retorner: 

3365 De Taimant arai tant com porra porter 

La nes que jo menrai por moi a gouverner ; 
Sor la roce u Judas seut venir reposer, 
En celi vaurai jo par mon esfors monter/* 
" Certes,** dist cil au cisne, " ne sai le liu trover 

3370 U g*irai, mais ne puis apr^s vos demorer. 

Nos en irons tot .v., Dex nos laist encontrer 
Tel cose u nos puisons los et pris conquester; 
Mais cil que nos laisons el vivier tant noer, 
Qui nostre germains est, il me fait molt penser ; 



L 



90 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

3375 J^ Tainc molt, ne le puis laisier seul demorer; 

Se j*en vols jel menrai, se puis engien trover; 

Et no suer, la pucele, la gente o le vis cler, 

Remanra notre pere, bien le porra garder; 

Et il li porvera a segnor et a per 
3380 Home qui bien le doive segnerilment garder." 

"Bien ait," dient il tot, "qui t'aprist a parler.'* 

I parlemens est fais et li consaus fenis, 
D'illueques s*est cascuns a la cort revertis; 
Al roi vienent tot .v., ains n*en fii uns eskis. 

3385 " Rois,'* 90 dist cil au cisne, " or nos soi6s aidis ; 
Nos en volons aler, li consaus en est pris, 
Et par terre et par mer querre aventure et pris ; 
Cevals et fer nos done, escus et vers et bis, 
Selonc 90U que cascuns a le fais entrepris ; 

3390 Trois cevals en ta terre nos porvoi et eslis, 
Et .ii. nes dont avrai Tune a mon devis." 
" Voire, sire,'* respont cil au lioncel bis, 
"Jou voel ceval et fer, que soie amanevis." 
"Et jou," dist cil a Taigle, "escut a or burnis ; 

3395 Mes fers et mes cevals, ce est tos mes delis.*' 
Cil^as puceles dist qu'il en ira envis 
Sans fer et sans ceval : "J 'en woel estre gamis." 
Et dist cil as poisons : " D'espiel qui soit burnis 
Et bien fort en anstes voel jo estre garnis; 

3400 Ne el mes ne haubers, cil ne m'ert pas degis, 

Ne I'escus as poisons, dont moi menbre tosdis, 20* 

Et une nef o moi, la estera mes lis." 

Dist cil au blanc oisel : " Autretels ert mes dis : 

Jo voel avoir calant, et escu blanc et bis, 

3405 U li blans oisiaus soit paintur6s et escris, 
Un espiel qui blans est paintur^s et forbis. 
Si voel une came qui soit d*or bien eslis; 
De lone ait une toise, dont ert a mon devis." 

TL ont fait lor demande lor pere a lor talent, 
3410 '*' Ne li pere n'otroie n'il n'escondist noient, 
Mais de 90U que il ot a le cuer molt dolant; 
S'il o lui remansiscent, grant aseiirement 
Eiist en eus tostans envers tant mainte gent 
Dont a lev6 son cief, si parla hautement 
3415 " Enfjamt," dist il, " par Deu qui maint en Orient, 

^ molt am6s et ain molt voirement ; 



NA ISSANCE D U CHE VALIER A U CVGNE, 9 1 

Remands avoec moi, et fi6s et tenement 
Donrai cascuns de vos, ensi le vos creent, 
Et vos avrois assez proece et hardement." 

3420 Et il li respondirent sans nul delaiement: 

"^ou que nos demandons nos don6s bonement" 
^ou respont rois Lotaires : " Tot al vostre talent 
Ar6s fer et cevals trestot^seiirement, 
Mais durement me poise de vo departement; 

3425 Mius vos amaise o moi ens en mon tenement 
Ens la garde al Segnor qui vos fist de noie%t 
Soi^s vos conmand^ tot parm enablement.** 
Armes, cevals et nes a cort terminement 
Lor a li rois porquis, si lor met en present, 

3430 Et la caine d*or que cil au cisne atent. 

A eel present doner ot molt grant plorement; 
Li rois plore ses fils qu*il ama bonement, 
Li fil plorent lor pere qui remaint seulement, 
Et li chevalier sont del desevrer dolent; 

3435 Ne quident mais trover qui lor doinst gamiment 
Ne ceval ne hauberc ne nul afTublement: 
.C. en caient pasm6 el maistre mandement. 
Al relever qu'il font i ot dolousement, 
Regretent lor segnor qu*il aiment durement/ 

3440 Cil as cevals s*en vont, n;iais c*est devinement: 
L*uns ne verra mais Tautre a plus pro9ainement, 
S'ierent pass6 .vii. an trestot plenierement. 
Cil as poisson a fait son aparellement, 
Son escu et son fer met, si nage erranment 

3445 Et a voile drecie sigle la mer et fent. 

IL as p>oissons se nage trestot a son talant, 
Or le conduise Dex qui jo trai a garant. 
Cil au blanc oisel a porveii son calant, 
Sel fist traire el vivier u il ot est6 tant. 

5450 Lu6s qu'il vint el vivier, es le vos avolant 
Le cisne qu*il aloit a conpaignon querant; 
Des eles le conjot et del bee en frotant 
II li jeta el col le loien d*or luisant. 
Puis Tatafa au bort de la nef de devant. 

-^^e Li batials par desous avoit le fons tren9ant; 
Trait li cisnes, la nes va de legier sivant, 
Sifaitement andui vont Tuns Tautre aprendant 



c 



92 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

II a mis en sa nef Tescut al oisel blanc, 
Et Tespee et Tespiel forbi, roit et irenyant; 

3460 D 'autre fer n*a il cure, n*en porte tant ne quant 
Li cisnes va la nef a caine traiant, 
Tant comme li viviers avoit le fil corant; 
S*entrent en TAliose, ce trovons nos lisant. 
C'est une molt grans eve, por .v. jors demorant, 

3465 K*il aloient par rive le ravor eskivant, 

Tant qu'en mer s'enbatirent, al grant flos retraiant. 
Or s'en vont il tot .vi. aventure querant, 
Troi par terre et par bos les cevals cevalfant, 
Li doi en .ii. batials, et li sistes traiant. 

3470 Dex! com laisent lor pere coreciet et dolant, 
Et melsme lor suer en a .i. duel si grant, 
Quatre fois se pasma trestot en .i. tenant. 
Li pere Ten relieve, sel va reconfortant : 
" Taisi6s vos, bele fiUe, ja jor de mon vivant, 

3475 Certes, ne vos faurai, iyou vos acreant." 
A itant retornerent ens el palais errant, 
.IIJ. jors demainent duel, al quart vont confortant. 
Et li chevalier oirent qui s'en vont cevalfant, 
Et cil nagent et siglent qui en mer vont nagant. 

3480 De cascun est estoire et matere molt grant; 
Des .iiij. ne dirons ore ne tant ne quant, 
Mais des .ij. vos irons un poi amentevant, 
Del cisne qui la nef vait a son col traiant, 
Et del jentil vallet dedens sa nef gisant. 

3485 Tant ont ja esploiti6 que par mer vont flotant, 
Bien pres .Ix. jors sont en mer demorant; 
Dont se traient el riu, c'est une eve molt grant, 
De coi la mers refoit le flot et le corant. 
La s'en vont encontre eve le rive costoiant, 

3490 Venu sont vers Nimaie, une cit6 vaillant; 

Voient les tors reluire qui sont fait a cimant, 2CF 

Cele part s'adrecierent par le Jhesu conmant. 
Ce fu a Pentecoste, une feste joiant. 
Que I'emperere estoit a Nimaie le grant, 

3496 Et ierent avoec lui chevalier et serjant. 
Ci fine li naisence des .vi. freres a tant 
Cil Damedex de glore qui forma Moisant, 
II gart et beneie et doinst amendemant 
Celui qui ceste estoire a mis si en avant 



PROSE VERSION 



— OP TMB — 



MS. 781 (BIB. NA T., F. FR.). 



r 



SEIGNEUR, oi^ et escout^ si porr^ entendre et savoir comment 
li chevaliers li chisne vint en avant, et le grant lignie qui de li iss- 
par cui sainte crestient^ fu ml't essauchie et eslevee. et I'ai conmeni 
chie sans rime pour restore avoir plus abregiet ; et si me sanle que le 
5 rime est ml't plaisans et ml't bele, mais wW est longue. 

L avint jadis que li roys Orians qui ml't estoit grans sires et de ml't 
grant renon estoit un jour entre lui et le rolne Beatris se fenme as 
fenestres de son palais. Et regardent contreval le rue et vit li roys 
une fenme qui .ii. enfans portoit, et bien sanloient jumel. Lors dist il 
10 rois a le roine : '* Dame, ml't me merveil que nous n*avons nul en- 
fant, et ves la une povre fenme' qui .ii. en a ml't biaus et me sanle 
qu*il soient jumel.'* 

QUANT la dame 01 sen seigneur si fu ml't courouchie et ml't dolan- 
te et dist: ** Ha sire," dist le rolne, **je ne querroie mie en nule 

15 maniere du monde que une fenme peiist avoir .ij. enfans a un lit se 
ele n'estoit livree a .ij. honmes et eiist jut a .ij. honmes. "Ha 
dame," dist li roys, "vous dites mal. Car sachi^, Diex a par tout 
pooir." A tant le laissent dusques au jour que li sires jut a le rolne et 
engenra .vij. enfans par le vertu de Dieu. Li roys Orians avoit mere 

20 qui ml't estoit male vielle, et ml't fu dolante quant ele sent que le 
roine fu enchainte. La dame porta ses mois et ses dis tant qu'il 
avint que Damedix le vaut que le dame se delivra a un jour de .vij. 
enfans. A chel delivrement n'ot fenme nule fors le vielle Matabrune, 
qui mere estoit le roy Oriant, qui ml't ot felon pens^ et mauvais. Li 

25 .vj. en furent fil et si ot une fille et ml't issi d'aus grande lignie. Et 
Matabrune prent les enfans et les met en son escorciz et mande Mar- 
con, un sien honme, et li dist: "Amis, ten^, port^ ches enfans en 
tel liu que jamais n'en oTe parler et gard^ que vous les ochi^." 

\4 ARKES prent les enfans et les en porte en le forest ml't parfont et 
JO les met sur I'erbe. Li enfanchon li conmenchent a rire. Quant 

Markes les voit ml't en ot grant pit^ et dist : " Ja Damedix ne m'alt se 
je ja nul mal vous fach." A tant laist iluec les enfans et s'en revient 
arriere. Quant le vielle Matabrune le voit ml't en fu lie. A tant s'en 
part Markes. Le vielle garde desous uns degree et treuve que une 
35 kienne avoit caal^ iluec .vii. caiaus. Ele les prent et vient a son fil. 



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96 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

Quant li roys Orians le vit venir il sc lieve centre lui et li dist: 
"Dame, bien viegni^. Dame, queles nouveles?*' "Certes/* dist 
Ic vielle Matabnine, <'biaus dous fix, ml't laides et ml't horribles et 
mrt manvaises. Veschi le present que vo femme vous a aport^, et 
5 s'est delivree de ches .vii. cayaus conme le plus desloiaus qui onques 
fust, n*ainc de nului ne se garda, et par maintes fois Taje trouvee aveuc 
autrui que aveuc vous. Mais pour vostre honneur m*en taisoie. Or 
s'est delivree de ches .vii. kiens que vous ichi ve^. Faitcs le ardoir. 
Car onques pieur que li ne fu, et se faire ne la vol^, je melsmes Tai- 
10 derai.** 

|UANT li roys vit et ol che que se mere li dist, ml't fu dolans et 
dist : '* Dame, je ne cuidoie mie que el monde eiist meilleur dame 
de li ne plus loiaus. MPt sui dolans de sen mesfait. Et par Diu, 
bele douche mere, aidi^ le me a cheler, car je I'ai espousee et li 

15 creantai que je li porteroie foi et loiaut^. Et conment le porroie je 
veoir et ardoir ne faire ardoir?** ** Biaus fix," che dist la vielle, *• vous 
targi^ trop longuement. Je le ferai geter en vochartre.** Lors s*en 
tome le vielle et vient a .ij. de ses sers et les apele et vient au lit le 
boine rolne Beatris etlidist: "Orde pute desloiaus, or pert bien 

20 vostre puterie qui desistes que femme ne pooit avoir .ij. enfans a un 
lit s*ele n*estoit a .ij. honmes livree. Or puet dire mes fix que vous . 
en av^ jut a .vij. Certes il ne prenderoit mie tout Tor de Roussie 
par si que vous ne soi^ demain arse.'* " Dame sainte Marie," dist le 
roine, ** ne veullife mie consentir que je muire a tel doleur, si voire- 

25 ment conme je me sui loiaument maintenue! '* '*Chertes,'* dist le 
vielle Matabrune, " Pute, riens ne vous vaut.*' A tant I'ont prise li 
serf malfaisans et trufiers et mainent le boine rolne en une ml't oscure 
chartre, ne n*i eut ne keute ne dras le boine dame. Lors sont tantost 
li dou serf avul^, n'alnc puis ne virent riens. Mout soufTri la dame 

30 de griet^. 

|R oi^ des enfans qui sont en le forest sur le rive si conme Markes 
les y ot laissi^ envolep^ en une pel, et avoit cascuns une cainete 
au col. Et est tele lor destinee que s'il les perdoient, il devenroient 
chisne volant, ft tant com il les aront il seront en fourme d'ome. 

35 A tant es vous que uns hermites vint iluec qui ot est^ en le forest .1. 
ans, et voit les enfans, et prie a nostre Seigneur s'il le plaist qu'il 
envoit a ches enfans nourreture par coi il puissent vivre. Ne dc- 
moura puis gaires que Dix y envoia une chievre qui les enfans alaitoit, 
et il I'alaitoient aussi conme fesissent une femme. Li hermites prent 

40 les enfans et les emporte en se maison, et cascun jour le chievre y 
venoit. Et ainsi les nourri grant tans. Tant que il avint que un jour 
estoit li hermites al^ el bos et y avoit Tun des enfans men^ aveuc 
lui. Si avint que Malquarres, qui forestiers estoit, vint par aventure 
a le maison chel hermite et treuve les .vi. enfans qui ml't estoient bel 

45 et vit les cainetes qu'il orent as cols, et dist que se se dame veut, il 
lor torra les cainetes. Lors vint li traltres a se dame et li dist: 
**Dame,j'ai la trouve .vi. trop tres biaus enfans en chele forest, et 
ont .vi. cainetes as cauls. Dame, et se vous me voiles croire, je leur 



0' 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 



97 



iroie tolir." Quant le vielle Tcntendi, ele fu mrt dolante, car ele 
savoit bien que che estoient si neveu que Marques avoit port^ en le 
forest. Lors dist a Malquarre : " Ral^ en Termitage et -leur tol^s les 
calnes, et s'il se deflfendent vers vous si les ochi^." A tant se met chil 
5 Malquarres a le voie. Matabrune mande Marcon qu'il venist parler 
a lui et il y vint. Lors le maine en une cambre, et le conjure qu'il li 
die voir qu*il fist de ches .vij. enfans que ele li avoit cargui^ et que 
s'il li mentoit ele le feroit desmembrer. Adont li dist li preudons : 
" Dame, sachi^, je les laissai en le forest ne mie ne les ochis." Lors 
lo prent le vielle Marcon et li fait les iex crever. 

'TANT eut Malquarres al^ quMl vint en Termitage. Adont avint issi 
'- que li hermites estoit al^ en le forest, et ot un des enfans aveuc 
lui. Quant Malquarres vit les .vi. enfans et les calnes et que nului 
n'ot aveuc aus si en fu ml't li^, et prent les enfans a cachier aval le 

15 maison et tant qu'il en prist un, et li taut le calne. Et lors devint 
blans chisnes et s'en vole en vivier sen pere le roy Oriant a Illefort. 
Quant li traltres le vit, mlH s'en esmerveilla. Puis prent les autres, 
et tout li autre s'esmurent aussi quant il orent les caines perdues et 
s'en volent a Illefort el \ivier lor pere le roy Oriant. Lorss'enre- 

20 vint Malquarres a se dame et aporte les calnes. Lors mande Mata- 
brune un orfevre et li prie qu'il li fache une coupe de ches .vi. calnes. 
II respont: ''Dame, volentiers." Adont prist une des calnes et le 
forga, et en fist une mPt riche coupe. Les autres .v. calnes mist li 
orfevres en sauf, car bien vit que eles estoient boines de grant ma- 

25 niere. Quant li hermites et li enfes vinrent de le forest et il ne trouve- 
rent a Tostel nul des enfans, mPt furent dolant et courouci^, et 
demenerent nil't grant duel, et les regrete li enfes et li hermites. 

A PR^ avint que Matabrune vint au roy Oriant sen fil et li dist : 
^ ** Biaus fix, tu es trop vergondfe ; fai te femme ardoir, car trop est 

30 mortex quant ele se coucha a un chien. " Li roys fu ml't dolans et fist 
tous ses barons assanbler a un jour pour jugement faire de sa femme 
ardoir ; et avoit ja est^ en chartre bien .xv. ans c'onques saoule n'i fu. 
Et ml't reclaime Diu et ses saintes reliques que il le veuille geter de 
chele poverte, car ml't est malmenee de fain et de mesaises. Quant 

35 li baron furent assault, et li jugemens fu rendus en tel maniere que le 
dame fust Tendemain arse se ele n*avoit campion qui le defTendist. 

|R avint ainsi que nostres sires Jhesus Cris, qui ne voloit mie que le 
dame fust perie, envoia un sien angele a Termite en le forest, et li 
dust: " Hermites, Dix te mande que tu en votes demain au matin chel 

40 enfant a le chit^ d' Illefort, pour rescourre se mere d'ardoir, qui est 
femme le roy Oriant. Et il et li autre .vi. enfant sont fil le roy Oriant 
et le roine Beatris. Or li a mis Matabrune sus tel blasme que ele eut 
.vii. chiens, et que ele jut a .vij. chiens, par coi ele sera damain arse 
te ele n'a secours de lui. Et ne soi^ de riens en doutanche, que 

45 Dix li aidera.'' Et li quemande qu'il se fache baptisier et qu'il ait non 
Helyas. A tant s'en va li angeles. Quant vint I'endemain au matin 
li hermites esveille I'enfant et li dist: *' Biaus fix, lev^ sus; il vous 



0' 



98 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

conyient aler a Illefort pour deffeqclre vo mere d*ardoir, del blasme 
que Matabrune li met sus ; et vous faites crestienner et baptisier. Et 
ai^ non Helyas. Li hermites li fait une cote de fulles si conme on 
dist, et li vest ; puis prent une perche en se main, et li hermites le 

5 convoie dusques hors de le forest, et li dist: "Biaus dous fix, soi^ 

^preus et sages, et sachi^ que vous estes fix le roy Oriant, et soi^ 

asseiir que Dix vous aidera." A tant Ta li hermites mis a le voie, et 

li a moustree Illefort, ou il doit aler. A tant s'en part li hermites, et li 

enfes s'en vient pour se mere esquiver del blasme que Matabrune li 

lo mist sus. Adont avint ainsi que Matabrune avoit %t\€ son sort, et 
que le roine devoit estre rescousse par un sien enfant, ne gaires ne 
demourroit. Lors prent .ii. sers et les envoie encontre lui pour lui 
ochire. A tant es vous que li enfes vient et les encontre et leur dc- 
mande li quex est se mere. Li serf le virent fol et non sachant, et 

15 bien seurent que che estoit chil pour coi il estoient la venu. Lors li 
tire li uns et li autres le saque. Lors dist li enfes : " Li ques est Mata- 
brune? Mes peres me dist que je me presisse a li, et je si ferai." 
Lors hauche le baston et fiert Malfaisant qu'il li brise Tespaulle, et 
apr^s referi si trufier qu'il li brise le chief. Lors toument en fuies ; ct 

20 li enfes s'en part et vient a Aillefort. 

QUANT li enfes fu a Aillefort venus, ml't se merveilla de le gent 
qui la estoit, et dist qu'il ne cuidoit mie que el mont eiist tant de 
hermites, car onques mais tant de gent ne vit. Lors regarde le roy 
qui s'espee ot chainte et fu sur un cheval dont li enfes ot grant paour. 

25 Quant li roys le vit ml't se merveilla, car bien li sanloit estre fols. 
Li enfes vint au roi et li demanda des coses qu'il veoit ques coses che 
estoient ; et li roys li disoit ml't boinement. Quant li enfes li ot de- 
mand^ du cheval, du frain, de I'espee et d'autres coses pluiseurs, lors 
01 un cri, et li demanda que che estoit. Li roys li dist ml't boine- 

30 ment : *' Amis, jou ai une femme qui a est^ plaine de cruaut^ et de 
felonnie, et a jut a .vij. chiens ; or I'ont mi homme jugie, et le doit on 
maintenant ardoir." *' He! boins roys," che dist li enfes, "vous ne 
I'av^s mie loiaument jugie, car che ne fu onques voirs, ne onques che 
ne fist ; ains li a aucune ame mis sus par felenie, ou vo mere ou 

35 autres, qui point ne I'aime. Et s'il estoit aucuns qui se vausist con- 
battre pour la dame et dont vainquist chelui qui sus li metroit tel 
crieme, en ne seroit il raisons que la dame en fust quitte et delivre ?" 
*'Certes," dist li roys, ''oil, et ml't en seroie life." "Sire," dist li 
enfes, " et ves me chi qui pour la dame en ferai le bataille, et en def- 

40 fenderai le dame." 

QUANT li roys ol son enfant ensi parler, ml't en fu life ; mais il ne le 
connissoit mie. Lors vint li roys a sa mere et li dist : ** Dame, che 
seroit cruautfe de cheste dame ardoir ; pour Diu, laissife le a pais, 
car vous faites pechi^ qui de tel blasme le retfe ; puis que vous volfe 
45 qu'il soit ainsi il vous convient campion trouver, qui che puist affer- 
mer que mis li avfe sus. Car le dame a campion qui bien le deffen- 
dra." Quant Matabrune I'entent, mult en fu irie et vit que campion li 



NATSSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 



99 



convint avoir. Lors vint a Malquarre et H dist: '* Malquarre, biaus 
amis, il vous convient cheste bataille faire encontre chel garchon. 
Et se li garchons estoit mors et le dame fust arse, je pourcaceroie 
que mes fix seroit mors, dont si seroie rolne et dame d'lllefort, et 
5 mcnriens entre mi et voiis nos delis. ** Dame,** dist il, ** vous y vcn- 
r€s et juerr^. Car se je juroie, je me parjurroie.*' — **Mauquarre,** 
dist Matabrune, " ne t*en caut ; je te deffen que tu ne soies preudons, 
et que par tout porte faus tesmoing, ne onques ne te caut de dire 
verity.*' — ** Dame,** respont Malquarres,** je ferai vo quemandement. 

lo Lors vint Matabrune au roy et li dist : ** Ore, roys, fai ten garchon ar- 
mer.** — ** Dame, volentiers.** — ** Sire,** dist li enfes, ** je veul anchois 
estre baptisi^s, car mes peres, li hermites, me dist quant je me parti 
de lui que je fuisse baptisi^ et que je eiisse non Helyas. Dont fisent 
Tenfant lever et lui baptisier, et ot non Helyas. Pluiseurs barons eut 

IS la a cort qui disent : " Pour Diu, roys, ten^ chest enfant a droit, car 
tfirt est biaus et bien sachi^ que a vous resanle mrt bien.*' Dont fist 
I'enfant armer et appareillier de mVt riches armes. Et Malquarres 
fu d*autre part appareilli^ mrt richement. Puis aporta on les sains, 
et jura premiers Malquarres que il avoit veil le roine gesir as kiens, et 

20 qu*il Ten vit aporter .vii. cayaus. Dont vaut baisier les sains, mais il 
n*i pot avenir, ains canchela ; et adont disent li baron entr*aus que il 
estoit paijur^. Apr^ jura li enfes Helyes et dist qu*il avoit du tout 
menti et que le roine ne pensa onques si mauvaise cruaut^ et que 
boinement et saintement s*estoit ad^ maintenue aveuc le roy sen' 

25 seigneur. Tout proient conmunement pour Hely que Dix le confof- 
tast et tout conmunement que Dix vausist confondre Malquarre le 
traltour. 

TANT es vous que li enfes vint a se mere et li dist : ** Dame, con- 
fort^ vous en Dieu et en se mere ; car bien sachi^s que a Taie de 

30 Dieu je vous deliverrai de chest crieme que le vielle Matabrune votis 
met sus. La dame Ten merchie ml't. Lors monta Helyas sur le 
cheval et demanda de toutes ches coses qui as armes et au ceval ap- 
partenoient ; et li maistres li dist del tout ml't boinement. Lors 
monte et en vient a le bataile. Et Mauquarres revint d*autre part et 

35 dura tant li caples d*aus .ij. que en le fin Mauquarres fu vainctis. 
Quant Matabrune le vielle desloiaus vit que Malquarres fu vaincus, 
ele monte et s*en va a un castel que ele avoit qui a non Malbruians. 
Car bien savoit que ses fix li roys le haoit ml't. Quant le bataille fu 
finee, li enfes dist au roy: **Sire, j*ai le bataille vaincue a I'aie de 

40 Dieu. Or doit estre la dame delivre. Je vous avoie un poi oubli^ a 
dire." Quant Mauquarres vit qu'il fu du tout vaincus, il cria a Tenfant : 
** Enfes, ne m*ochi mie, car saces que Matabrune a tout fait chel mor- 
tel enconbrier, et me fist esrachier les calnes des cauls as enfans qui 
ti frere estoient.** Et li enfes respont: **Tu as fait mauvais serviche, 

45 si en aras ton loier.** Lors trait s*espee et li caupe le teste. 

QUANT le bataille fu afinee, li roys vient a le roine et li crie: 
"Dame, pour Dieu merchi, pardonn^ me che que j*ai meserr^ 
envers vous ; car tout che me faisoit me mere.** — ** Sire,** dist la dame, 



A 



lOO NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE, 

" je vous pardoins tout boinement.** Lors passe le dame avant et vaut 
I'enfant baisier. Li enfes guenchi et dist : '* Dame, je n*ai mie tel cose 
apris en le forest ou jou ai est^ ; car ainc n*i vi dame ne pucele, fors 
que bestes sauvages.*' Et quant li baron I'oient, s'en risent ml't boine- 
5 ment. "Seigneur," che dist li enfes, "faites me venir Marcon, car 
il ot pour mi et pour mes freres crev^s les iex, que Matabrune li 
creva." — "Sire," dist Markes, **ves me chi.'* Lors se tome Elyas 
et le regarde et le prent par le chief et li alaine es iex ; et par le vertu 
de nostre Seigneur il raluma tantost et vit, si conme on dist. Et 

lo quant li roys et li autre baron virent chou, si en furent tout effre^ et 
tout esmari. Lors demanda li roys a I'enfant qui il estoit et dont il 
estoit. Li enfes li respont: "Sire, saci^ que je sui vos fix. Vous 
souvenroit il ore que d'un jour que me dame me mere vostre femme 
dist que femme ne pooit avoir .ij. enfans a un lit s'ele n*estoit livree a 

15 .y. honmes ? En chele nuit vous geustes a lui et engenrastes .vij. en- 
fans si conme Dix le vaut. Je en sui li uns et eiimes calnetes d 'ar- 
gent ; encore ai je le miene. Et Matabrune nous embla et nous bailla 
a Marcon pour occhirre, et il nous laissa en le forest, si nous trouva 
iluec uns hermites qui nous nourrist ; et vostre mere Matabrune nous 

20 fist tolir nos calnes par Mauquarre. Et quant cascuns ot le sieue 
perdue, si devinrent blanc chisne volant, et sont encore en Tiaue." 
A tant es vous I'orfevre qui les caTnes avoit et li rent ; et quant le 
roine voit che, si keurt son enfant baisier. 

"OEIGNEUR," dist Helyas, "or ven& aveuc mi et vous verr^ ja 

25 ^ grans miracles de nostre Seigneur." A tant vinrent a I'iaue, et 
Hely huque les chisnes et il avolent a lui et I'acolent des eles. Lors 
doune a cascun le sieue caTne, et lors devinrent en humaine fourme. 
.L en y ot qui y fali, qui ml't demena grant dolour d'estrange ma- 
niere, et se debat de ses eles et deplume del bee et demaine grant 

30 dolour. Et quant li roys et le roine virent chou, si en demenerent 
ml't grant duel de lor enfant qu'il orent ainsi perdu. Li enfant furent 
chel jour lev^ et baptisi^ ; et ot li uns a non Jehans et I'autres Zaca- 
ries et le fille ot non Rose ; et issi puis d'ax ml't de boine gent par 
coi sainte crestient^ fu ml't essauchie, si conme on vous contera cha 

3^ en avant. Ml't demena li roys Orians et le roine Beatris grant joie de 
ses enfans ; et manda li roys Orians ses haus honmes et couronna 
Helyas sen fil devant aus tous. Grant pieche dura le feste et ml't fu 
pleniere; mais ml't estoit Helyas dolans de Matabrune qui ainsi li 
estoit escapee ; et tant qu'il manda se gent et monta et en vint a Mai* 

^ bruiant ou le vielle estoit, et assist le castel. Quant li honme le seu- 
rent, il prennent entr'aus conseil et disent : "Seigneur, nous sonmes 
trop mal engigni^ pour cheste vielle desloial qui nous a si encant^ 
que nous tenons le vile encontre no seigneur ; et bien est apparissant 
qu'il est hons que Dix aime, car ja a pris et est keiis li premiers 

^^ murs. Je lo que nous rendons a lui et li rendons le vile." A tant 
vont a lui, et li fu le vile rendue. 

I roys Helyas entre en le vile et vint el castel et treuve le vielle et 
le prent. Le vielle li crie : " Biaus tres dous ni^, pou Diu merchi 



L' 



0' 



NAiSSANCE D U CHE VALIER A U CVGNE. joi 

ne m'ochi^ mie, car je devenrai nonne ou rendue en une abeye, et 
pour Diu ai^ merchi de mi.'* Lors le prent li roys et le fait mettre 
en une chartre. 

|R oi^ de le desloial vielle conme dyable li aidierent et conme ele 
fu plaine de Tennemi. Ele list tant que ele escapa de le chartre 
et vint en le cambre ou li roys gisoit, et treuve une espee et le prent ; 
puis escrie Helye le roi: "Ahi! garchons desloiax, je te deffi je ne 
mengerai mais tant que tu soies en vie.*' Quant li roys entent le 
vielle, si fu tous esmaris ; il saut sus et envolepe entour sen brach le 

lo courtine qui dessur son lit estoit si qu*il deschira tout aval. ^ Et le viel- 
le crie : ** Helyes, vous n'i duerr^, car je vous deffi et riens ne pris 
quanques vous av^ fait ; car je vous ochirrai de cheste espee.'* Adont 
saut Helyas avant et saisist le vielle, puis apele se gent qui tout es- 
toient endormi, et prennent le vielle. Li roys fist faire un fu grant, et 

15 il melsmes ses cors geta Matabrune ens. Ainsi fu le vielle Matabrune 
arse. Li roys avoit mand^ se mere et ele vint a lui ml't volentiers, 
et ml't fu lie de le vielle qui arse fu, qui tant de mal li avoit fait et si 
grant tort. 

QUANT tout che fu fait et akiev^, li roys et se mere s'en revinrent a 
Illefort. Chele nuit se jut li roys Helyas en sen lit. A tant es 
vous que nostras Sires envoia a lui un sien angele, et li dist : " Helyes, 
dors tu ? Dix te mande par mi que tu t*atoumes d'auberc, d'elme, 
d 'espee, de targe, et t'en va demain au port de mer et enterras el 
batel que tes freres li chisnes t'amenra et te menra a Nimaie, iluec a 
25 une dame qui a mestier d*aye, et nostres sires veut que tu li ajues, et 
que I'onnours de Bullion soit acquittie et delivree par ti du felon 
Sesne. Et quant tu aras le dame se tere .acquittie tu prenderas se 
' fille ; et istera de vous .ij. une ml't grant lignie qui prendera Jheru- 
salem et le terre dela ; puis t'en revenras arriere en ten royaume." 

30 AUANT Helyas of che que Dix li ot mand^, se veilla toute le nuit ; 
V^ quant vint au matin il se leva et appareilla, et prent congi^ a sen 
pere et a se mere qui ml't en furent dolant, mais refuser ne le vaur- 
rent pour che que Dix li ot mand^; et I'ont convoi^ a crois et a reli- 

35 ques dessi au port de mer. Atant es vous que li chisnes vint et ame- 
na le batel. Li roys Helyes entra ens et prent congi6 et li chisnes 
Ten maine et s'en vont. Quant li roys Helyas vint parfont en mer 
tout au premier jour encontra sarrasins galies et I'assalirent ml't dure- 
ment ; mais li chisnes se deffendoit si viguereusement que che n'es- 

^ toit se merveille non. Et li roys se drece en son estage et se deffent 
ml't viguereusement. Mais chil Sarrasin si estoient .iiij. galies et 
ml't y ot li chisnes a souffrir, et li roys Helyas. Li maistres ot non 
Escos ; quant il vit se gent morte ml't en fu dolans. A tant es vous 
que uns orages ml't grans lieve qui les Sarrasins desvoie ml't loins. 

^e Lors vinrent pluiseurs galies des angeles de paradis, et fu S. Laurens 
aveuc qui tous les Sarrasins noierent. Dont ala tant li chisnes 
noant atout Helye qu'il vint au port desous Nimaie. Quant li em- 
pererres et I'autre gent qui la estoient le virent ml't s'en esmerveille- 



I02 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

rent et vinrent a lui et li demanderent qui il estoit ; il lor respond! que 
uns chevaliers estoit qui estoit iluec par mer venus ; et lor demands 
quele vile ch'estoit la. II respondirent que ch'est Nimaie. II dist que 
aussi Taloit il querant. A tant ist hors du bastel et li chisnes s'en va. 



NOTES. 



The caption (p. i) is not g^iven as a rubric in either of the 
MSS., but is taken from the text, w. 34, 35, which are offered 
as a sufficient warrant for the title adopted. MS. A (^2* v. 23) 
has " Del boin due Godefroit v9 dirai le naisence." 10 Cil 
le prist a Nimaie. The fact that this statement is repeated 
near the end of the poem (v. 3301), may lend it some color of 
probability. 11 Chevalier le Cisne, For omission of the 
preposition a, cf. Tobler, * Verm. Beitr.' p. 174 note, 1. 15. 16 
roiamesy cf. raian 18, for which see Foerster's *Aiol,' note to 
8094. 20 hanty regularly differentiated by the orthography from 
the pronoun on ; cf. 8, 10, 21 and 26, 106, 107. 24 Damedeu, 
dative, cf 52. 25 de naisire Venfangoriy ace. with inf.; cf. 
Tobler, * Vermischte Beitrage,' p. 73. 42 .xiL read xiiii. 

This emendation naturally suggested itself, but was not ventured, 
through oversight of -^ (2^ v. 10) : " Ja avoit bien li enfes .xiiii. 
ans de jouvent." 51 deceiiy * disappointed in their hopes.' 

52 raront boin, * will have another good (king)' ; for a list of il- 
lustrations of re in composition, see Suchier's * Beaumanoir ' 
(^Anciens Textes) vol. ii, vocab. 53 fu remis, * had abated.' 
55 'Causes his rights to be acknowledged by all his subjects ;' 
same idea repeated in 60. 70 ni read n*i. 73 The repeti- 
tion of the first hemistich of 70 is not sufficient evidence of an 
error in the text (for a parallel, cf 30 and 41). A has taken 
pains to alter slightly the identity of the phrases. 76 chachier 
is Fr. cacher, not chasser, as implied in the vocabulary. 79 
for voie, no need to change the spelling yi;r/. 81 cervelier. 
Godefroy cites (from the MS.) this passage only, in illustration 
of the word cervelier , which he incorrectly defines as "/a ramure 
dti cerfr To the word in the form cerveler, which occurs (in 
the rime) 'Nafc<?ance,' i486, with the sense of 'tite' he assigns 
only two meanings, viz., ^heaume ' and * cervelle,^ 83 Para- 
taxis : ' There were two packs of hounds, {and yef) they could 
not turn him aside.' 83 detrier, correct spelling is detriier, 
93 espier, same word as espiel, 103 ; cf. Suchier, Zeitschrift i, 
430- 95 '^^^* I^ ^^ emendation is correct, it illustrates 



I04 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

Tobler's position (' Verm. Beitr./ p. 69), that wherever id means 

* wholly * it is an adjective agreeing with subject or object. For 
the nom. oubliis cf. Tobler, Zeitschrift xii, 421, §8. 96, 97 

* Nor knew not where he was nor knew not how to return nor 
house he sees not none/ 104 Toi^ pronoun, summing up 
€spiel, car, espee ; — car il en oi mesiier. The true reading is 
probably que s'il en a mestier] ke, 106, repeating the (conjectur- 
al) que of 103. Cf. similar construction, 905. (The variant to 
106 is numbered 105). 109 espee and espiel, objects oi garde 

pres, 113 desiroii=¥T.y Eng., * district,' by oversight referred 
to meaning difficultly in vocab. 116 caure CALdREM, chaleur^ 
CALOREM. 121 ;{2>n/, here a monosyllable, generally of two 
syllables elsewhere in the text. 123 foillus, definition in 

vocab. should read ^ garni de feuilles^ The word is not given 
as an adjective in Godefroy. 125 Seair . . . /aire, like alUr 
/aire] — esbanait, noun derived from esbanaier^ probably by 
false analogy with such words as esploit. 126 florisaii^ MS. 
seems to have fiorisoit. 130 se tintre^ cf. 2795, apparently a 
colloquial word, equivalent to se rauler. 133 sorgon^ same 
word etymologically as Mod. Fr. surgeon. 136 Tigris. 

Pigeonneau (*Croisade,' p. 151) quotes from the MS. of the 
Roman des ChHifs the following lines : " Sor le mont de Tygris, 
dont la roce est ague, Conversoit une beste, grans ert et par- 
creue." 147 acoisonouse, agrees with cars, in the meaning of 

* subject to the suspicion of,' ' liable to.' 148 male eriie cause, 
cf. Godefroy, s. v. heritey where this phrase, however, is not 
given. Vocab., s. v. erite, dele couse chose. 150 Construction 
similar to the Eng., * be it never so painful.' 151 de ban escieni, 
cf. 285, 376. 158 IcLste. Godefroy has only lasii, under which 
he cites, from Bordier's * Philippe de Remi * (Sal. d'Am. 918) : yi 
avoir grant repos pour lasti, observing neither that the rhythm 
of the verse is thus destroyed nor that the word rimes, in the 
next line, with paste, (The verse is correctly printed in Suchier's 

* Beaumanoir,' vol. ii, p. 225, v. 91 1). In our text, the measure 
shows that N has used laste, while A employs lasti, 169 
coisiy same word as Mod. Fr. chaisir. 183 esrance^ either 
literally igarement or figuratively ditresse. iSg garde, pres. 
indie; probably the true reading, though at first blush one is 
tempted to prefer that of ^ (Si regart). 196 Mi centisme, lit. 
mot (Jiant le) centime, logically the object of arai, * I shall have 
a company of a hundred.' 198 si, read sW. 201 cam U 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 



105 



aroit . . . troverau A preserves the sequence of tenses, and is 
perhaps better. 202 et (in et tant), introducing principal 

clause. 204 tote jor, well-known locution, supposed to be 

formed on the analogy of ioie nuii^ cf. G. Paris, ' Extraits,* s. v. 
jorn, 208 ors^ leu, lion, all plural. 213 Si, beginning 

principal clause, cf. 217, 239, 393. 214 The verse given after 
214 by v4 seems to belong to the original. 223 X,=cinquante, 
236 Naje, negative, corresponding to oje, as nenil to <nl\ cf. G. 
Paris, Rom, vii, 465. 240 The discourse of Lotha!r is carried 
into the next tirade, 242 A violates sequence of tenses. 248 
nefait a refuser, ' does not do to refuse,* i. e., * your offer ought 
not to be declined*; cf. 2077, 2093, 3217, 3359. 252 verra 
on, two syllables. 253 que iani puis desirer, combines the 
meanings : * which I desire so much * and * which I desire as 
much as possible,' G. Paris, * Extraits,' p. 143, n. 74 ; cf. 1487. 
262-264 A omits presumably of intention. 266 acoistre, dis- 
.similation for acroisire, 269 cisne signum. 271 ^ tot 

'with,' cf Eng. * withal,* — In variants, last line, read 277 for 
227, and 278 for 228. 280 Permei (N) is perhaps only a 
metathesis ol promet, 284 sergeyit, which is formally masc, 
refers nevertheless to Samonie, 291 in the variants, 

cloquetis read cloqnetes, 296 ensement, read seulement, 

from A, 319 7 o.l>osnes in N seems to be a meaningless 

blunder for linaloh, 320 ferrent, ' gray horse,* * horse 

in general,* cf. 298. 322 meismes, better meisme, ^2^ 

N^s reading fadoine (not Sadoine') is apparently a cor- 
ruption of ladame, which A has ; but the sense seems to require 
Samonie, which was doubtless in the original. 335 Si , , , 
que ' so loud . . . that.' 338 Insert comma after encontre, 
345 ma cose, prob. for mon cors, cf. 724. 355 ne demoera mie, 
'shortly.* 360 nel fai, usual construction would be Tie I /aire, cf 
568. 366 Note caesura between noun and adjective. 370 nel= 
ne le ; le, neuter pronoun, anticipating logical object in next verse. 
374 movent, with accented termination; cf 380, 832, 1015. Has 
this phenomenon been anywhere formally studied ? Incidental 
mention of it is made by Tobler, 'Verm. Beitr., p. 112, 1. 3; by 
Apfelstedt, * Lothr. Psalter,' p. li, note (citing ' St. Graal,* 3560) ; 
and by Suchier, in Gr6ber*s ' Grundriss,* vol. i, p. 601, §37 
(" Orleans unterscheidet sich bereits durch die Betonung der 
Endungen in der 3. PL"). 386 molt maine bele gent, cf molt 
oi gent, 400, and avrois assez pro'ece, 3419. 396 par non de. 



io6 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

* under the tide of,* ' in the form of; ' cf. similar use of el non de 
as explained by Tobler, * V. B./ p. 121, note 2. 392 partoty 
better par tot. 403 A7, * whoever.* 406 s'uns . . . criSy ' if 
one of them falls, there are loud shouts.' 422, 423 Change 
period to semicolon and semicolon to comma. 4^5 quHl es- 
toient la quiSy ' what their object was in coming ; * guts, p. p. 
querir. The corresponding form of the direct question would 
be, * qu'estes vos ci quh ? * which may be regarded as a confusion 
between * qu'avh vos ci quis ? * and * qu'estes vos ci venus 
querir ? * 433 Lotaire, indirect object. 436 Si li a mis^ 
when direct and indirect object would both be expressed by the 
3d personal pronoun, the direct object is usually omitted, cf. 

' Grundriss,' p. 639, § 75. 445 vair, read vairs. ^'j'j poi, 

* peu de chose.* 453 etisanble, preposition. 465 Si, begin- 
ning principal clause. 469 espials'^, 473 In the variant 
read A for A. 474 mucies. The rime might be restored by 
considering ol as a personal verb agreeing with ele understood 
and mucie as a participle not agreeing with its object ; cf. v. 503, 
where N has also mucies, 482 s\ before escrie, is conjunction= 
et. 486 tos celSy dative, refers to the priests. 504 abre=arbre. 
505 la premiere partie, * in the beginning.' 507 Se—si, * et.' 
512 ce que senefie^ for order of words, cf. Tobler, ' V. B.,* p. 55. 
524 CelSy indirect object. 527 effrei, which is the reading of 
both MSS, was allowed to stand, as referring to Lotaires ; but 
effreee is probably better ; de le before a vowel and referring to a 
masc. noun is hardly possible; I do not see how to emend. 
528 tot S071 dangler y * tout son possible.' 530 que is under- 
stood dStev jeii, 536 prestre, noni. form, instead of ace. pro- 
voire, 562 Evain, ace. of Eve, cf. 570, and Marien, 617. 
577 tos ses enfanSy ace. with inf. aler, 596 Sens car assembUe, 
cf. Et bien fort en anstes, 3399, which, so far as I have dis- 
covered, are the only hemistichs in the poem which are thus one 
syllable short. 604 soumey * burden,' seems to be here used 
in the sense of * sin : * * that there should ever have been sin in 
thee, even in word (much less in deed).' 616 A^ suppression 
of the passage 1616-1621 is doubtless due to certain difficulties 
which it contains : the meaning of v. 616 is not quite clear, while 
V. 618 apparently refers to the journey to Emmaus (S. Luke 
xxiv, 13-33), ^^^ implies that the two disciples wished to keep 
on {tnal vaurent aler)^ whereas it was Jesus who " made as 
though he would go further." 617 Pier on, ace. of Pieres, cf. 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 



107 



628. 626 qtCil rCosoient parler, que has almost the value of a 
simple copulative, et, 633 fu^ read est, on account of follow- 
ing puei, and cf. variant; te, indirect object of reprover (as \nje 
lui trouve toutes ces qualiUs) ; * as it is true that all these great 
miracles that thou hast heard me here recount, can be proved 
to have been wrought by thee and (as) I believe this firmly, of 
a good and pure heart, [so] grant me,' etc. 636 Elioxe^ ace. 
with infin. demener, 639 susiance^ object of dainses under- 
stood. 643 songe, ace. with infin. deviner, 'grant that the 
dream she has had may have a good meaning. 651 del . . . 
dotty * his gift of bestowing the benediction.* 654 Rejected by 
A ; ' down to the lowly toe that he held on the rushes (with 
which the floor was strewn).: ' he first made the sign of the cross 
from foot to head, then from head to foot. 655 mokan, pro- 
bably the same word as Mod. Tr.moigtion (of unknown origin), 
here meaning * wrist' Even A seems not to know the word. 
682 variant, read g^adroces. 684, cf. note to 113. 681 
remh, * far removed,* cf. Matzner, * Altfr. Lieder,' note to i, 7-9. 
687 s'engramiey read s^en gramie ; an examination of the numer- 
ous examples of engramir and gramiier (^gramoier) in Gode- 
froy, shows that gramir is regularly combined with en^ while 
gramiier is not so compounded ; make corresponding correction, 
v. 800. 691 Conjectural emendation: n!en perderont il mie; 
demie for // mie, is the kind of blunder that might arise from 
writing from dictation. 692 /*, cf. * V. B.,* p. 178, last line. 
693 il=Loiaires, 696 * There were three weeks (that) he was 
in mortal doubt.* 697 ses cors, for the use of cors as a para- 
phrase for * self,* see Tobler, * V. B.* p. 27. 697-699 En ba- 
lance ert , . de faire . . . « il atende, shows an inconsistency in 
the treatment of co-ordinate clauses somewhat similar to that 
discussed by Tobler in his chapter on " Ungleiche Behandlung 
der Glieder dilemmatischer Fragen,** * V. B.* p. 22 ff". 700 // 
le met a raison, ' he takes her into counsel,* cf. next line. 706 
defa, * in these parts.* 707 deslruil, N has destruist\ — desce- 
piie, cf. Demaison, * Aimeri de Narbonne,* vol. ii, vocab. s. v. 
deccplie: "forme ims^n^e en vue de la rime, pour decepline, 

* chatiment ; * ** the word (with the orthography decepiie') is sup- 
ported by two citations in Godefroy, but stands each time in the 
assonance. 712 Prisons et raenfons, in apposition with gent, 

* prisoners and persons subject to ransom.' Prison in this sense 
is frequent, but, so far as I know, raenfon is not so. 713 



io8 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

Matrosilie, cf. Introduction, p. ix. 714 penst^ 3. pres. subj., 
cf. doinst, 434, 3435. 729 department^ read departement, 
Tyj els et autre genty indirect object of mestier avra. 744 
Read: ''Dame,'' dist Elioxe/'cil etc. 750 e //, one syllable. 
761 c teres enluminees, cf. Tobler, 'V. B.,' p. 65, whose only 
example for cler, under " Adjectiva kongruirend in Verbindung- 
mit Participien," is clers tutsans. 764 .5''=* if,' /=«, introduc- 
ing apodosis, cf. verse 768. 774"778 Text unsatisfactory- 
In V. 777 // refers to // corliuy while the subject (understood) of 
the verbs in the next two lines is li fievi, 782 jovene, read 
nauviel, from A. 790 Insert comma after Gambisofis, 792 
qui tes tetres disoient, ' those whom the letters designated/ 
796 Dete comma. 800 C£ note to 687. 801 The verse 
given here by A seems to belong to the original. 816 raieni 
I take to be 3. pres. indie, of raembre, of which I know of no 
other example; it would mean here, loosely employed: *he 
burns a7id (thus) pays back for towns and cities and casties, 
(viz., pays back for those that were burnt by Gordoce). 824 
quit=qui ti, 831 fer et clau, for the same combination cf. v. 
3054. 847 qui de mort ait garent, ' in safety.* 851 unsatis- 
factory ; as given in the text the verse may mean : * It is three 
hundred feet broad (all the way) up to the source.' 854 Masice^ 
fern, not of massif massa-ivum, but ofmassis (niasif), massa- 
iciUM ; cf. 435. 855 /^r . . . esforfanty cf Tobler, * V. B.,' p. 44. 
856 N's metathesis of tonels to note is was thought to be too 
violent and unusual to be allowed to stand in the text. 862 
The harsh enjambement of -A^ is much softened by A {Ont it', 
duske a, etc.). 868 The substitution of querir for querre 
would obviate the uneuphonious proximity of two feminine ^ s 
in successive syllables, and was perhaps the reading of the 
original. 871 /(?/,' religion.' 873 Voit le cit^ d'Artage, le 
fierce, a clear and simple example of the so-called 6xinia ano 
xoiyov, treated of by Tobler, *V. B.,' iisff. ("besteht in der 
gleichzeitigen Zugehorigkeit eines Redestiickes zu einem Satze, 
dessen Schluss und zu einem zweiten Satze, dessen Anfang es 
bildet ") ; here the phrase d'Artage is made to do double duty, 
as limiting both ctti and fierce (for the latter construction cf. 
885). One of the simplest examples cited by Tobler is Des 
treis files ot nan Vainznee Andromacha fu appelee. A's 
reading admits of the same construction. In the text, the 
comma might better be suppressed after Artage, 879 avoir, 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 109 

noun, * goods, property,* cf. v. 989. 890 quil=qui le\ /(f, 
object pronoun referring to tref\ * everyone pitches his tent who 
knows where (can find a place) to set it.' 895 des faisius 
ahurter\ a^^ belongs to ahurteTy and yet contracts with les^ 
article agreeing witli faisius : * and they make the sparks fly by 
striking the flints.' Sgg por, * for fear of.' 904 saucoiy read 
saufoi. 916 ' For all that, he (Lothair) will not cease hostil- 
ities against them (the inhabitants of Artage).' 917 /'=/a citi 
d^Artdge. 920 Si, *till.' 922, 923 A% reading seems to 
be due to his (or his predecessor's) having connected par une 
nef corsaire with the following yifr(7«/ . . enirer\ instead of with 
the preceding mande ; ariere, instead of au roi, is supported by 
V. 958. 928 ,viii,^ both MSS. have .z'., here changed to coin- 
cide with V. 840. 934 il et sa conpaignie^ cf. Tobler, * V. B.,' 
p. 187. 935 cascun, dative; hace entesie, absolute. ^5 
enguiCy sing, for pi. (hient et enguient les mairiens') ; but if this 
be the correct explanation, it marks a curious license as com- 
pared with the accented -ent of the 3d plural (cf. note to v. 374). 
-A^has en Guie, in which I am tempted to see a Fr. form guie 
(of which I have no example) corresponding to Prov. guia^ in 
sense of guise : en guise . . . que Vaigue ne past mie. A has 
aguie, and a guise could stand in the same construction. Per- 
haps iV's manner of writing was distinctly intended to prevent 
confusion with the verb enguie. 1003-1006 * And the water 
carries them (the beams) down with such velocity that, even 
had there been no beams or other enginery, they (the walls of 
Artage) would not resist for any length of time the mere water 
only, which rushes with great tumult.' 1007 vint, read vient; 
nes creve7ity read n'escrevent and dele comma. 1008 //, better 
el, 1027 Note insertion of the article before arc^ to save the 
metre ; cf. 2705, 2916. 103 1 granment qualifies tice, 1035 
Vauires, and 1036 runes, for les autres, Us unes, seems to be a 
license of the scribe, if not of the author ; the feminine forms are 
due to gent, 1044 sou/ert, endurees, an interesting example 
of one participle agreeing with its object and the other not, for 
the sake of the metre. 1059 Si . , , que, correlatives. 1065 
qu,' ' so that.' 1070 ormiere, for or mier, form devised for 
the rime. 1085 quil=qui le ; le, neuter pronoun, * that he will 
go.* logi sel=si la, 1100 qui* n=^qui en. iioi que, ^ so 
that.' 1 131 domaine, 'liege,' cf 11 54. ii^T pues, read 

puh, 1 162 de la teste a couper^ *d'avoir la t^te couple.' 



I lo NATSSANCE D U CHE VALIER A U CYGNE, 

1173 tins fans, ace. pi., c£ 121 3. \\%\ faiies nas aiierer^ 

• cause us to set foot on land/ i, e., ' cause the waters to abate/ 
1 183 » tdie^ * vid€e.' 1 198 qui, dative. 1200 Insert comma 
after banie. 1 201 A^/ ' for.' 1 240 mesaleVy read melaler^ a 
word of unknown origin. Godefroy has but one example of the 
verb (s. v. meraler)^ but several of the noun meraleresse, * Sage- 
femme ' ; c£ also aUrresse^ in the phrase mere alerresse, Du 
Cange, s. v. mer alius, has: "Sed et Meralleresse, dicta dim 
obstetrix, nescio unde ducta vocis origine, nisi quod pro mercede 
merallum acciperet; [a ^aya^ obstetrix, deduci posse opinatur 
Menagius ; quid si a Gall. Mere et Alleger, quod matri in partu 
laboranti allevamentum ferunt ?] ; " and Godefroy cites de 
Hesdin, ^d. 1485 : '* en nostre pais on la nomme meraleresse 
pour ce qu'elle va partout de maison en maison.** A apparent- 
ly does not know the word; -A^ has mel aler. Can this be 
simply for mal allert 1253 as en fans manaier, * upon hand- 
ling the children ; ' for oj cf. note on v. 895. 1260 lerre mere^ 
'mother earth.* 1272 esperis^ two syllables; previously as 

three syllables, cf. 433, 437, 1264, in all which cases the word is 
ecclesiastical; here not 1275 Observe the peculiar order of 
words ; cf. 1285 and 3229, and the more remarkable Puis que la 
roine est Elioxe entieree, 1288. 1293 in variants; read 1294. 
1 30 1 r eve lee , A^has relevee, cf note to 856. 1330 in variants, 
read 1303. 1309 sel=si le; si, * till." 1314 ^/ I take here 

to be the pronoun (ale for *alid, G. Paris; *alium, W. 
Foerster ; *alum, Van Hamel ; *alim, Cl^dat), used adverbially, 
'autrement,' rather than the Picard form el for ele. 1338 
Qui me vauroii, we seem to have here another case of dud xot- 
vov (cf. 873), the first construction being : Qui me vauroit air ai- 
re de vostre bien ; maire (* poissons de mer '), form devised to 
suit the rime. 1352 second que=ce que, 1357 dex read 
Dex ; se Dex me face die. In his discussion of se with the sub- 
junctive in clauses of asseveration (Gram. Ill, p. 357 note**), 
Diez says : ** Die conditionale Partikel ist eigentiich nur im Itah 
und ausserdem in der altpg. prov. und altfr. Form se unbe- 
streitbar." So far as I am aware, no explanation has been given 
of this use of the conditional se, Hf^ with the subjunctive. It 
can perhaps be accounted for as arising from a simple confusion 
between se used with the indie, in such locutions as se Deu 
plaist 'if it please God' (1458), and si, with the subjunct, in 
such as si Deus m'diut, * so help me God.' 1362 le laise, *he 



NAISSANCE D U CHE VALIER A U CYGNE, 1 1 1 

disregards it (his fatigue)' ; nes^ perhaps a mfelake for ne or nen ; 
yet we have son fais and nes again side by side, w. 1365, 1366. 
1374 si, ' tilL* I'^^peneanchier has here evidently die sense 
of riduii ; Godefroy gives only the meanings ptniteni and phtu 
tender, 1391 avoit . . ati^ the use of avoir with aler is 

frequent m O. Fr. ; cf. 1408. 1399 qui, dative. 14 10 liter- 
ally (inverting the order of clauses) : * if there was anything to 
eat there, it is not there that I put them,* i. e., * you may be sure 
there was nothing to eat where I left them.* 1413 Attention 
is directed to the poetical simplicity, directness and beauty of 
this and the following laisse. 1420 aiast imperf. subj., in the 
same construction 2s fust, in the verse above. 1423 suer, 

nom. form for ace., seror, cf. 1447. 1432 que fo est, c£ note to 
V. 512 ; In Eng., the equivalent of ^7/^/ would stand in the first 
clause: 'what can it be that is stopping up the window?' 
1434-35 * he went around (outside) and kindled a pine cone (so 
that he could see) to remove the obstruction (cele cose) ; ' en- 
braser, intrans. verb ; a fait enbraser^ ' has caused to bum ' (like 
a fait bouilHr), 1435 and 1436 both end in the same word 
with virtually the same meaning, yet the reading is probably 
correct ; if this be admitted, -A^'s reading in vv. 295, 296 may 
also be allowed to stand. 1451 at lever, i. e. al lever de forts ^ 
cf. 1505. 1457 autel, in rime with -er, 1455, 1^(0 prestre 
for ace. provoire, 1463 faiies nos delivrer, not * cause to be 
delivered to us,* but * do deliver to us,' as Tobler has conclusive- 
ly shown (for similar passages) in his chapter on ^^faire mit 
dem Infinitiv zur Umschreibung des Verbum finitum," * V. B.,* 
p. I9ff. 1470 Close the quotation. i^^^ persegna, read 
presegna (p* in N) \ it is rather remarkable that, of numerous 
examples of this word cited by Godefroy, not one shows the 
prefix in the form per, i486 cf note to 81. 1497 D'ensi, 
*from (the same condition) as he found them.* iy)0 jehir 
read tehir (' prosp^rer ') ; enfans is subject accusative of the two 
infinitives. 151 1 nient, cf. note to 121. 1527 s'a delivri 
(where the subject of the verb is feminine) ; for a study of the 
reflexive verb in compound tenses, cf. Tobler, * Vrai Aniel,' note 
to 166, and Zeiischrift xii, p. 421, §8. Between 1532 and 
1533 there is apparently a lacuna of at least one verse: *we 
shall in no wise be comforted [until our messenger shall have 
been dispatched] and shall have come to you and spoken to 
you.' 1534 Escrisih, 2d pi. imperative, after the analogy of 



1 1 2 NAISSANCE D U CHE VALIER A U CYGNE, 

inchoative verbs in -ir, d. plevissiis, 1299. 1540 cf. note to 
934- 1543 P^^^i probably for presi, 1548 Son capelain, 

indirect object, cf. 1682. 1558 Change comma to semicolon. 
1559 /^"^> 3- P^- pooir, generally pot, cf. 576; >^/rm^/, riming 
with 'ier, 1564-66 * No one in the world can long be happy 
without having, at the end of his joy, to endure some news 
such as causes his heart to sink ; * estancier, * ^tancher,* I take to 
have here the force of essuyer (* subir,' * supporter ') ; anons itis. 
On the strength of this passage, Godefroy imagines and intro- 
duces a word anonsii^, which he defines as * adversity.' (In the 
same quotation 7ionchier, 1562, is printed nauchier?) Anofis is 
doubtless the same word as annonce, cf. Patris^Pairice 12 14 
(nom. Patrices 1218), and especially mes=mece 1753 (pros. subj. 
metre). Since anons stands here before a vowel, it might be 
supposed to be a mere case of elision, but the examples Patris 
and mes do not admit of this explanation. The phenomenon is 
apparentiy of a purely phonetic nature. (Lothair's discourse 
continues through the next iaisse), 1571 Se=si, *et.* 1584 
ge7it niescreue, cf Tobler ' V. B.,' p. 130. 1587 Prenderons nos 
avueCy for an example of soi prendre used in this sense, cf. 
Foerster's * Aiol,' 10591 (6d. Normand 10589): // dreciereni les 
voiles, si se pre n dent e7i mer. 161 7 Por que with indie, cf. v. 
372 1628 douce 7iee, cf. note to v. 761. 16^6 pie f^a, for a 
discussion of this locution, cf. Tobler, Zeitschrift xi, p. 433 ff. 
1640 seror joie, cf. 'V. B.,' p. 130. 1653 Et sH , . . ei siy I 
have preferred to print si in the second clause, as being the 
more probable reading. 1679 ^i . . . travellier, cf note to 

1464. 1693 ^^^^ soing de repairier, * took care not to re- 

turn ; * cf Mod. Fr. 71^ avoir garde de, 1707 7mhii, possessive 
genitive, cf * V. B.,' p. 57 n. 2. 1718 a7iuicr nom. (without 

s') X.O prent, of which roi is the indirect object. 172 1 Escrisits, 
cf note to v. 1534. 1722 creant. Koschwitz, in * Karls Reise,' 
V. 37, emends creance to creant (on account of the metre), and 
in his vocab. explains crea7it as the pres. part, of creire used as 
a noun ; it is rather the verbal noun from creaiiter credentare. 
1724 por droit faisant, cf note to v. 855. 1725 a/ roi contnant, 
cf 'V. B.,' p. 58. 1746 By a typographical error which 
will be readily understood, the laisse is made to begin at verse 
1746, instead of verse 1749. 1753 tor seller es apparently con- 
nected with torsoire, 789. 1781 ' He has fears for his beast, 
of the devouring of the wolves (lest the wolves devour him).' 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 



"3 



1791 por eschapery 'to prevent his escaping.' 1806 glaier, 

read glatir. 1809 en son mesgarder, * absentmindedly.' 

1822 Striking omission of the relative pronoun after Virgene. 
1827 ires ier^ cf. 3213 1841 ^;f soUs assh por gesir^ 'make 
yourself contented with a chance to lie down/ cf. Encor ne fu il 
mie de tant al baron ses (Aiol 9152), * He had not yet had 
enough of it (had it out) with the baron ; ' a nuiiie Godefroy has 
set up a word anuitie, under which are printed six examples, 
all of which should appear under nuiiiee (nuiiie') ; one verse, in 
fact, is made to do duty under both heads. 1851 si a Pore 
saisie. The MS., in which 1 and f are often difficult to discrimi- 
nate, seems to have si a sore laisie ; I am now inclined to 
consider sore to be a blunder of the scribe for s^evre^ * son 
oeuvre,' (which he took to be* s^eure, * son heure * and changed 
to his own orthography, cf. 1848), and accordingly read: si a 
s'oevre laisie. 1857 grant, MS. h:^ grans. 1861 une doit 
plus que mie seems to be a proverbial saying, and probably 
forms a separate sentence, with full stop after paiele. 1873 
Tuii, only occurrence of this form. 1879 Close Rudemart's 
" aside" with quotation marks and a dash. 1880-83 are out 
of proper order in the MS. and marked a, d, by c in the margin 
to indicate the sequence. 1888 cascun, without s. The con- 
struction is not the same as in 1875, but as if it were • * qu'il y a 
mis entour le cou ^ chacun.* 1890 por seems to be for par, 
1935 le meSf meaning * them to me,' for the usual les me, occurs 
not infrequently in the North of France. References and an 
attempted explanation are given by Foerster, 'Aiol,' note to 
10223 ; cf. * Naissance,* 2813, where le mes is misprinted me les. 
1959 Tanie mecine ai buie. Godefroy cites this passage, s. v. 
earner, as follows : " Tani mecine ai buii,^' 1969 desiemprer ; 
Mod. Fr. diiremper represents a metathesis of this form, as does 
Mod. Fr. abreuver of abevrer, in next line. 1988 Nonjist il\ 
yfj/=verbum vicarium, * nor did he (see him) ; ' cf. phrase non 
feraiy which is a survival of this locution as regards both non 
dJiA /aire. 1999 rimant, read runani, from runer 'to hum,' 
* utter in a low voice,' of Germanic origin. 2000, the figures 
have fallen one line belgw. 2007 taisani\ MS. seems to have 
tasaniy which is perhaps for iastant, 't^tant.' 2017 sans 

caucer, in the same verse with sans cauce, has the air of being a 
corruption. 2023 QuHl, read Que il, for the metre. 2050 
pannes ; MS. \i'd& paumes. 2060 langeis I take to be an adjec- 



i 



114 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE, 

tive derived from 3. lange, * langucur/ in Godefroy, which he 
supports with only one citation, but which occurs also Manekine 
6681 (Suchier's * Beaumanoir^), where the editor has erroneous- 
ly changed the reading of the MS. (Jangues) to langueurs (of. 
Suchier^s vocab. s. v. langes). The meaning is not especially 
appropriate to this passage, but the second hemistich is only a 
cheville. Langels is perhaps the same word as 2. languis, 
* languissant/ for which Godefroy has one example. 2066 
Inadvertence of the scribe. 2067 The punctuation is open to 
question. The les in guts has perhaps the function of lor (cf. 
' V. B./ p. 74, note), in which case lor ensegnes would be the 
direct object of embler, and a semicolon would be placed after 
porter ; or, possibly, we have here another example of the con- 
struction ano Hotrov, ensegnes being at once the object of em- 
bier and the subject oiperdues soni, 2085 as/ios, read tUflos^ 
and cf. al grant flos, 3466. 2090 grant de manieres, * de 
toutes sortes.' 2094 por, better par, 2 loi porveance, second 
subject o^ fist, v. 2097. 2103 bon pasturer, object of im- 
personal yf^/ (*V. B.,' p. 179 ff.). 2106 reviel, better reveL 
21 17-18 Deie semicolon and read Li\ ferroie is i. cond. y>r/r; 
bouiir=bouiiiir. 2124 maire, here used as a term of falconry. 
2126-27 A remarkable construction, which may be regarded sis 
standing for the following : u li cisne estoient tot (=tuit) qui Lo- 
taires ot conmandi que niis, etc., 'where all the swans were 
which Lothair had commanded that no one should molest them/ 
This curious complication seems to be due to the fact that, in 
addition to the requirements of the metre and to what Tobler 
calls " die Verschmelzung des Relativsatzes mit einem Objekts- 
satze," the whole passage is itself introduced by a relative 
adverb {u=oit), 2134 tenaire, cf. tenier, 2156; I do not find 
these words recorded ; they are evidentiy formed upon the stem 
of tenir, and appear to refer to the part of the bow which is 
held in the hand. 21^^ for f or, organic comparative. 2150 
pioncUs, riming with -ier. 2176 fist, better sist, 2186 del 
rivier, cf. 2411. 2188 dou, only occurrence for flf^/. 2189 
guets, Godefroy defines; * riviere, gu^,' and cites only this 
passage. 2194 lavis does not make good sense; can the 

word be tanis *bruni, souill^ * ? 2197 iiueis, Godefroy has 
" lieuwis adj. ? " with the following citation : " Tout consenti li 
mauvais rois Francis Karles Martiaus, ki en fu trop lieuwisJ* 
The word is perhaps connected with Goth, lewjan ' to betray,' 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CVGNE, 115 

cf. Eng. lewd. 2203 ids, perhaps iciL 2205 and 2210 

or/evresy MS. has or/evrez. 2213 Comma after quit, 2222 
loii, attracted to the nom. by following enfant, 2236, pain 
torte, cf. 2322. 2253 cascunSy as if in the plural, cf. 3418. 
2285 avoec liy *with her;'cf. next line, avoec /«/, *with him.' 
2395» read 2295. 2298 encambriy MS. has em combre, 

2317 congeiy part, not agreeing with object 2319 cf. tiote to 
1988. 2332 boskellauy Godefroy has only one example of 

boskillon, W\xh meaning of ' petit bois.* 2341 le vacariant; 
le, neuter pronoun, in vague sense: 'goes carting (it)/ i. e., 
goes on driving his cart.' 2345 cauestre, read cavestre^ 
and cf. V. 1791. 2347 amaint, only example of the fonn in -/; 
serganty fem., cf. note to v. 284. 2352-53 Godefroy prints, s. 
V. esduit', "li soferrons atant, Voit querre sen^j^wiV." 2375 
rCespie, MS. has ne prie, 2392 rale, p. p. fem. raiier, * ray- 
onner.' 2403 aportis, perhaps for aportr^s, but rather a 

change from fut. indie, to pres. imper. 2409 pUs, riming 
with 'iers, 2426 carpant ' charpente (du corps) ;' correct defi- 
nition in vocab. 2443 /^^isce regardee, peculiar use of aux- 
iliary, estre, 2446 la miee, Godefroy has only this citation 
for miee, which he defines: '*jatt6e de lait dans laquelle on 
6miette du pain." The word means simply * the crumbs (collec- 
tively).* 2448 Cille ce dist li ostes. From vv. 2453, 2462 
it appears that this dialogue is carried on between the hostess 
and the girl. I accordingly suspect that there is no question 
here anywhere of a host, and that the author wrote ostis for ostesse 
(cf. note to V. 1566), which the scribe has changed where he 
could easily do so, e. g., in 2397 Bele suer, dist Postis (here 
there was no difficulty for the scribe, on account of the caesura) ; 
in 2434 the scribe had to let ostes (properly ostis) stand ; 2448 I 
suspect (on account of the peculiar form Cille) to be corrupted 
from Celi dist li ostis ; while, in 2462, the author may have 
written: Li ostis Vapela. 2459 MS. has le, 2465 quel, 
better quil=qui li) MS. has ql with an indistinct sign of con- 
traction indicating quel rather than quil, 2472 A le fois^ 
'parfois.* 2479 vint, MS. vii, 2484 Jo, anticipates me\ 
the subject of voeUe is Dex. 2485 cf. note to 1693. 2497 
fait doubter, cf. note to v. 1463. 2491 errer, *agir;* cf. 
* Manekine ' 4391, Bienpense quHl a mal erri. 2500 aporter, 
perhaps a porter (Diez, Gram. III. p. 244), but cf. 2539 and 
2619. 2504, cf. 2419. 2509 qu'il, better qu'el. 2516 



Ii6 NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 

nus hanty 'anyone.' 2517 le petit pas ^ * lentement ; ' — aler\ 
since cammencer regularly requires a before the following infin. 
(cf. 2519), aler is here equivalent to a aler^ representing a phe- 
nomenon of which Tobler (* V. B.,' p. 187,* note) is able to cite 
only three known examples. He there says: Soil dies aVo 
xotrov sein, so ist es axo xotrov eines Lautes." It seems to me 
to be what is so familiar in Portug. : d=a a (* to the '). 2525 
del giu le va haster, ironical. 2529 &', * so hard.' 2540 
ostessey here used with fem. termination. 2559 et rovant (so 
the MS.), better en r. 2566 Comma instead of period. 
2567 euCy MS. uec, 2596 por estre apercevanty ' pour que 
vous soyez averti/ (* V. B./ p. 76) ; apercevanty participial adj., 
with active force. 2606 que plus . . . tant . . pluSy cf. Tobler, 
Zeitschrifty xii, p. 418 Cy where the nearest example is que plus 
.... tant mains. 261^ en neny read en tCeny which is for et 
n'eny as en ne is for et ne (enne^y Prose Version, p. 98, 1. 37. 
2650 eleSy riming with -is, 2654 mavty MS. mai, 2666 
que nul barat nH ay * oh il n'y a pas de tromperie.' 2685 molt 
cos les colpa, an interesting example of the original meaning 
(* frapper *) of Fr. couper. None of the examples in Littr6's 
" historique " have this meaning, and Godefroy does not give 
the word. For the modern sense, cf. 2769. 2691 nesun^ 
object of impers. a, 2721 en son ciely * at the top of heaven ' ; 
en paradis regni * in the kingdom of Paradise/ cf. * V. B.,' p. 
58 note, and p. 60, note. 2731 ElioXy i. e. EliouSy withmasc. 
termination, as in ostis^ etc. 2741 laisa le mort gisani ; mart 
is perhaps made to conform to the termination of gisant. 
2^60 com li fu convenant. Under 2. covenanty adj., *conven- 
able,' Godefroy has one citation, '* Biaus ni6s, com vous est 
covenant ? " which he defines as a locution : Comment vous 
portez-vous ? Dans quel 6tat sont vos afaires ? In both these 
passages it has the force of a participial adj. from conveniry in 
the rather unusual sense of * arriver, r^sulter.* 2765 la beUy 
ace. before morir; frequent construction with estovoir; pesant, 
MS. has pensanty which should rather have been allowed to 
stand. 2772 esfreeCy MS. es/ree, 2786 quite clameVy cf. 
Eng. quitclaim, 2790 nuUy MS. nul, 2791 Comma instead 
of period. 2792 or del celery cf. Die2,*Gram. Ill, p. 21 1, and 
Marcou, ' Histor. Infin. im Franzos.,' p. 23. 2801 essorbery cf. 
Scheler's Anhang zu Diez, s. v. orbo, 2810 nH fu gardiy 
impers. 2813 cf note to 1935. 2814 Vatreany Godefroy 



NAISSANCE DU CHEVALIER AU CYGNE. 117 

has " autriani, adv. Tautre jour, nagufere/* with one citation. It 
is the counterpart (altero anno) of auan (hoc anno) and 
anian (ante annum), but of late formation, like Vautr'ier 
(2467), to which Godefroy's definition better applies. 2850 
eskiSy 'disposes a s*esquiver,*